


And We'll Never Be Royals (Royals)

by BonitaBreezy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Chris is like the worst bodyguard, M/M, Prince Stiles, Scott is a good bro, because it's stiles lbr, but that's what happens when your whole family isn't tragically murdered, mix of book canon and movie canon, probably a bit OOC, the Princess Diaries AU no one asked for, ugh I'm so bad at tagging, unrequited lydia martin/stiles stilinski - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-05-28 13:19:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 47,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6330808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonitaBreezy/pseuds/BonitaBreezy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles always figured he was a pretty normal seventeen year old boy. At least, he did until his estranged grandfather appeared from nowhere and informed him that he was, in fact, the only remaining heir to the throne of a tiny principality he couldn't pick out on a map if his life depended on it.<br/>Now, between trying to keep up with Cora, his best friend who always has a cause, and getting Lydia Martin to notice him, he also has to attend daily prince lessons with his overly critical grandfather while trying to cope with the reality that he never really knew his dead mother.  If he can do all that, and maybe even figure out what exactly his relationship with Cora's hot older brother is, he'll be all set.</p><p>The Princess Diaries AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing Sterek. It kind of took me forever to write, and then even longer to post after that because my beta came down with an unfortunate case of giving birth and got really busy all of a sudden. Go figure. Anyway, this thing is unbeta'd but I did my best to edit it myself, so if there are any mistakes in there, I'm sorry. I tried.

“Stiles! It’s 9:30, go home!”

Scott let out a disappointed noise and whipped his head away from the TV screen to glare at his bedroom door, like maybe his mother would be able to see his face from downstairs and feel properly contrite about interrupting their fun.  While he was distracted, Stiles took the opportunity to freeze Scott’s character and hit him with a punch that knocked him across the screen and caused the narrator to announce “Finish him!”

“Dude!” Scott protested, looking betrayed.  Stiles just smirked and hit the proper combo, watching with satisfaction as Sub-Zero punched a hole through Scorpion’s chest and ripped out his spine in a burst of blood and gratuitous violence.

“Sub-Zero wins,” the game told them solemnly. “Fatality!”

“You cheated,” Scott said with feeling.

“You looked away from the screen,” Stiles shrugged.

“Stiles, I mean it!” Ms. McCall yelled.

He tossed the controller down on the floor and stood up, swaying just slightly with a head rush.  Scott glared at him like a disgruntled puppy for a long moment, like he was thinking about demanding that Stiles sit back down for a rematch, but then his eyes flicked towards the door again.  Clearly he decided that he’d rather not piss off his mom, because he just sighed and shooed him away.

“Rematch tomorrow, and _no cheating_.”

“Using someone else’s distraction to your advantage is totally not cheating,” Stiles insisted, grabbing his backpack from where he’d tossed it on Scott’s bed hours ago. “Sun Tsu said so.  Probably.”

“Whatever, man,” Scott grumbled. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, don’t forget we’ve got that quiz in World Civ.”  Scott’s horrified look said that he clearly had forgotten, and Stiles just snorted at him. “See ya.”

He thundered down the stairs, peeking into the living room to say goodbye to Ms. McCall on his way to the front door.  She was watching the news with a tablet in her lap, checking emails, but she kept frowning up at the television.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asked, because curiosity had always been his fatal flaw.

“Some European king died in a freak accident yesterday,” she said, nodding at the television, where a reporter was standing in front of a bunch of flashing police lights, looking appropriately sad as he spoke. “Every station is covering it.  It’s like Princess Diana all over again.”

“Huh,” Stiles said. “That sucks.”

“Yeah,” she murmured thoughtfully before looking at him with a frown. “Get on home, Stiles, you’ve got school in the morning.”

He made a face at her, but waved goodnight and headed out the door all the same.

His house was dark and quiet when he got home, which wasn’t entirely surprising.  His dad was the local Sheriff, and he worked a lot.  After his mother had died eight years before, he’d gotten used to having the house mostly to himself.  He let himself inside and flipped the deadbolt behind him, heading up the stairs without bothering to turn on the hall light.  He considered, for a moment, actually studying for his quiz tomorrow, and then brushed the idea off.

Surfing Reddit was probably a much more productive use of his time.

* * *

 

The next morning, Stiles went out of his way into the Preserve to pick up Cora Hale, as per usual.  Her parents were a pair of internationally lauded wildlife activists and they were loaded, but they had a very firm belief in making their kids earn everything they got, so Cora didn’t have a car.  Since it was cruel to make anyone over the age of fifteen take the school bus, Stiles always went and picked her up before school.  Often times, her older brother Derek caught a ride too.

Derek was a senior, super smart and generally considered pretty cool, if only because he didn’t care if people thought he was cool or not.  He was hot like burning, but he didn’t seem to notice it, not the way that Jackson Whittemore, Stiles’ arch-nemesis, did.  Derek was incredibly chill, kind of quiet, and Stiles liked him.  He was a good dude.

“Don’t think you can just bum rides off Stiles just because he gives me a ride,” Cora was telling Derek snottily as she slid into the front seat. “Because he’s _my_ friend, you know. He didn’t sign up to be dragging your loser ass around town.”

“We’re all going to the same place anyway,” Derek sighed, rolling his eyes so violently that it looked sort of painful.

“Mi carro es su carro,” Stiles added magnanimously, and Cora huffed and rolled her eyes just as viciously as Derek slid into the car, kneeing the back of Cora’s seat accidentally-on-purpose as he got comfortable.  Cora whipped around in her chair to glare at him, and Stiles just bit down a grin as he pulled out of their circle driveway and headed back towards the main road.

“Ugh,” Cora groaned when she finally turned back around in her seat. “Did you hear that they’re having swim tryouts after school today?  Like, can you believe that?”

“Uh,” Stiles said slowly, dragging out the vowel sound.  Cora always had a cause, and she was usually pretty vocal about her viewpoints on them.  If Stiles didn’t know why she was making such a big deal about something, he could easily give non-committal answers because he knew she would explain it.  In detail. “How unreasonable of them?”

“Damn right!” Cora agreed. “Like, seriously, we’re having a fucking drought, everyone’s saying we’re all going to run out of water, and they’re _filling the pool_ for recreational sports?   _Really_?”

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles said, frowning. He flicked on his blinker and then turned right. “I guess that is bad.”

“Of course it is.  I’ve made a petition, I’m going to have people sign it and we’re going to get that wasteful bullshit shut down…”

“Do you really think that they’re going to cancel a seasonal sport because you have a petition?” Derek demanded sardonically. “Do you really think you’re actually going to get anyone to _sign_ your stupid petition?”

“It’s not stupid, Derek, these things are important!”

“No one is going to be willing to fight the administration over _swimming_ …”

“They might,” Stiles spoke up, glancing at Derek in the rear-view mirror.  He was looking down at his phone, probably texting his friends about how ridiculous his sister and her friend were. “I mean, let’s be real, Cora is kind of terrifying, and it’s not like she’s going after lacrosse, so they might sign it just to get rid of her.”

“The apathy of our generation is horrifying,” Cora lamented, and Stiles didn’t argue with her.  Not necessarily because he agreed, but more because arguing with Cora was kind of like beating your head against a brick wall over and over again.  It was easier sometimes to just smile and nod.

She kept talking the rest of the way to school, not even noticing that he’d tuned out for most of the ride.  He only picked up the thread of her ranting again as he was pulling into her parking space.

“And I mean I’m not saying that I have an issue with swimming as a sport, or whatever, but when the administration decides that it’s more important to let Jackson Whittemore show off his gigantic head than to ensure that people have water to drink-and therefore _live_ \- we’ve obviously got a huge problem!”

“Totally,” he agreed.

“Just because he wants to prance around in a speedo in front of his prissy little girlfriend…”

“Lydia’s not _prissy_ ,” Stiles defended immediately, making Cora scowl at him. “She’s gorgeous and smart, and sure she cares about how she looks but why shouldn’t she, she’s _perfect_ …”

Derek got out of the car quickly then, slamming the door shut behind him with a little more force than was absolutely necessary.  Admittedly, that was a fairly common reaction from anyone when he started on his Lydia-Martin-is-a-goddess tangent, so he wasn’t too offended.

“Yes, yes, she’s perfect from her strawberry-blonde roots to her Jimmy-Choo-clad toes, I know,” Cora huffed. “You’re blinded by infatuation.”

“I’m not _blinded_ ,” Stiles insisted stubbornly. “And it’s not infatuation.  Ours is a lifelong love, and one day she will see that.”

“Sure she will,” Cora said, ruffling his hair like he was a cute-yet-clueless toddler.  

He scowled at her raking his fingers through his hair to try and make it lie flat again.  It was getting way too long, and he needed to get it buzzed again.  She laughed at his attempts and slid out of the car, leaving him to scowl at himself in the mirror and hopelessly paw at his head.  As usual, it was a hopeless endeavor, and he resigned himself to going through his day with a ridiculous cowlick.

* * *

 

_“Need you to come straight home after school.”_

Stiles frowned down at the text from his father, wracking his brains to try and remember what he could have done.  He was pretty sure he hadn’t done anything too awful lately, or at least not anything worthy of making him skip lacrosse practice.

 _“What’s up?”_ he sent back, looking up from his phone when Scott settled his tray down.

They had their own table at the edge of the cafeteria, a small one that they usually shared with Cora, when she wasn’t stalking around the cafeteria bullying people into supporting her latest crusade.  That was what she was doing today.  Stiles could see her from across the room, brandishing a battered yellow clipboard at people while they shrank away from her and looked terrified.  They were lucky that the administration had outlawed the use of bullhorns after the Fair Trade incident the year before.

“Why do you look so pinchy faced?” Scott asked, digging right into the mess on his plate that was meant to be chicken and dumplings but really kind of just looked like cat vomit.

“My dad wants me home right after school and I’m trying to remember what I did,” he admitted, glancing at his phone again and frowning when he saw no response.

“Do you think he found out about you keying Jackson’s Porsche?” Scott asked, his mouth half-full, which really made the food look all that more appealing.

“Say it a little louder, why don’t you?” Stiles grumbled, looking over his shoulder nervously, like Jackson might appear there and punch him in the throat.  He’d bitched loudly for weeks about getting revenge for the damage done to his car, but he’d never found out who had done it.

He ended up catching Derek Hale’s eye from across the cafeteria, where he sat with his leather-wearing posse of seniors.  He was smiling at something Erica, a gorgeous blonde who liked to wear her hem lines quite a few inches above dress code regulations, was saying.  Stiles felt his breath catch just slightly in his chest, because even though he’d known Derek since he was six and had seen him at home in his natural habitat, Stiles still had eyes, and he was aware that he was breath-takingly gorgeous.  Derek nodded at him, and Stiles whipped back around, a little spastically, and focused back on Scott.

“There’s no way my dad knows about that,” he said. “I was very careful.  You were the only witness, and anyway if it was that he would be here murdering me right now in front of the whole cafeteria.  He might even let Jackson help.”

“You’re probably right,” Scott mused. “Well, I’ll tell Finstock.  Hopefully your dad doesn’t lock you up in the attic or whatever.”

“You’re a true friend, Scott,” Stiles simpered, and Scott flung a spork full of peas at him.

* * *

 

“So what’s the deal, Daddio?” Stiles asked when he got home from school that afternoon.  

His dad was seated at the kitchen table with a finger of Scotch in front of him, which was never a good sign.  When he looked up, though, his eyes were clear and he seemed pretty lucid, so Stiles didn’t worry about it too much.  His dad was a grown ass man, and he could drink if he wanted to.  As long as he never fell back into the patterns he’d had right after Stiles’ mother had died, at least.  He had changed out of his uniform and into a pair of jeans and a black sweater, and the sleeves were pushed up just below his elbows, which betrayed his stress.  He always got hot when he was worrying.

“We’re going to Sacramento,” his dad said, which was honestly the last thing Stiles had expected.  

His dad hated all big cities, but especially Sacramento.  He’d gone to college in Sacramento and had packed up and moved the moment he graduated because he thought big cities drained the soul right out of you.  Stiles could count on one hand the number of times they’d actually gone to Sacramento, and they’d lived half an hour away his entire life.

“Uh, all right.  Why?”

“Your grandfather is in town, and he’d like to visit with you.”

“My...grandfather?” Stiles repeated slowly, confused for a moment because his grandfather was definitely dead.  And then he realized. “Mom’s dad?  The European guy who I’ve literally never met before?  The one who said that you weren’t worthy of mom and is basically a gigantic dick?”

“That would be the one,” John sighed tiredly.

“Uh...how about no?” Stiles suggested. “Why do we have to go out of our way to go see some stranger?”

“He wants to see you,” his dad explained. “He has some important things he wants to tell you.”

“And I’m supposed to care?” Stiles asked.

“Listen kid, I know it sucks,” John said, knocking back his scotch. “But I already told him we’d go.  Just hear him out.”

Stiles wanted to argue, to bring up a hundred thousand points and talk in circles until he convinced his dad to just blow the old guy off, but the dark circles under his eyes and the exhausted set of his face made him pause.  He didn’t want to be the reason his dad looked like that, not if he could help it.

“Yeah, okay,” he agreed reluctantly. “I’ll be right back.”

“Thank you!” his dad called to his back as he trotted up the stairs. “And don’t wear that shirt!  Be presentable, please!”

Stiles glanced down at his shirt, a black one with a silhouette of a stripper that said "support single moms" on it, before rolling his eyes and yanking it off.  He exchanged it for a gray t-shirt and his maroon BHHS LAX hoodie with his last name and jersey number on the back.  If he was going to the devil’s house, he might as well be comfortable.

His dad heaved a sigh when he saw him, but wisely chose not to argue.  Stiles got that he was trying to prove to his father-in-law that he hadn’t done a bad job raising his kid, but there were only so many hoops he was willing to jump through.  He wasn’t a show pony.

They took Stiles’ Jeep, since John wasn’t technically supposed to use his cruiser as a personal vehicle.  He grimaced when the radio came on to some Top 40 pop song, hitting the scan button to skip to the next station.

“...unfortunate deaths of the ruling monarch and crown prince of Genovia, a tiny European principality.  The Genovian royal family is in crisis, since these deaths and that of Princess Clarisse…”

John reached out and changed the station again, moving so quickly he almost punched the dashboard.  Stiles raised his eyebrows questioningly as the sounds of REO Speedwagon filled the car.  His father gruffly cleared his throat, the way he did when he was embarrassed, and then shrugged.

“I’m sick of hearing about it,” he explained. “It’s been the only thing on every station all day.”

“Okay,” Stiles said doubtfully, and then, “Isn’t Genovia where mom was from?”

“Uh, yeah,” he said, and then went totally silent.  It wasn’t necessarily a strange reaction, since they both had trouble talking about Stiles’ mom sometimes, but still, something about it triggered his suspicious nature, and he filed the short response away to poke at later.

Since it was clear that there wasn’t going to be much conversation had, Stiles popped in his earbuds and slumped down in his seat, wiggling around until he found a comfortable position.  He fell asleep in less than five minutes.

...

He woke up to a gentle shake from his dad, which had him flailing in surprise.  If he hadn’t been wearing a seatbelt, he probably would have ended up on the floor.

They were parked next to a guard house in front of a huge wrought-iron gate.  Behind the gate was a driveway that curved around a bright green lawn and a sprawling sandstone mansion with an elaborate curved balcony sheltering the front door and a covered breezeway that curled around the edge of the property.  He let out a low whistle as he took it all in.

“He wants to see your identification, son,” John prompted, and Stiles flailed again, trying to dig his wallet out of his back pocket while still seated and belted in.  He let out a triumphant little noise when he finally managed to wiggle his wallet- an awesome Batman mighty wallet that Scott had given him for his last birthday-out of his pocket and produced his ID.

The guard looked over their licenses and then raised his eyebrows slightly and looked back up at them, and then down at the IDs again.  Finally, he handed them over and gave them directions to follow the driveway around until they found the sheltered parking spaces.

“What the hell, Dad?” Stiles demanded as soon as the window was rolled back up. “Where are we?”

“Uh,” John said, hesitating. “The Genovian Consulate.”

“Okay,” Stiles said slowly. “ _Why_ are we at the Genovian Consulate?”

“This is where your grandfather is staying,” he said. “He’s uh...a politician.”

“Right,” Stiles said slowly, suspiciously. “He’s a politician.  Who is staying at the Genovian Consulate, out of absolutely nowhere, nearly ten years after his daughter died because for some reason he now wants to get to know me.”

“I know this probably isn’t what you wanted to be doing with your afternoon,” his dad sighed, rubbing his temples like he had an oncoming headache. “And I know this is weird and overwhelming and you’re not happy about it.  Believe me, I’m not either.  But you know I wouldn’t make you do this if it wasn’t important, right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles grumbled, slouching in his seat. “I know.  But I would just like to file a complaint: this is bullshit.”

“Noted,” John sighed. “And watch your mouth.”

They had to go through a security check at the door, letting the suited security guards at the door sweep over them with hand-held metal detector wands.  His dad wasn’t happy about having to give up his gun, and he watched closely as they locked it up behind the desk and put away the key.

They were then led into a fancy little sitting room, tastefully decorated with cream-colored settees that matched the curtains and a plush oriental rug.  There was a white statue of a dancing woman in one corner and a huge fireplace against the far wall.  Above the marble mantlepiece was a painting of a dark-haired man, seated regally on a throne with a crown on his head.

Before Stiles could make a snide comment, a dignified looking man in an expensive-looking suit entered the room.  He was tall, about Stiles’ height, but he held himself like he owned the world and everything in it, so Stiles felt rather small next to him.  His hair and thick mustache were both snowy white, but his eyebrows were still dark, which created a weirdly dignified sort of contrast.  He looked like he belonged in an old-fashioned picture, like the ones of old generals that they stuck in history books.

“You must be Maczysz,” the man said, and for a moment Stiles was surprised at his perfect pronunciation.  Then, he realized that this man must be his grandfather, and that they shared a name.

“You can call me Stiles,” he said, offering his hand for a shake, because that seemed like what he was supposed to do.

“I most certainly will not,” he said, shaking Stiles’ hand. “Your mother gave you a perfectly respectable, strong name, and you chose to disgrace her memory by taking on some foolish nickname.”

“You wait one second!" John started hotly as Stiles recoiled at the slight. “Not even Claudia called him Maczysz, and how dare you speak to my son that way...”

“John Stilinski,” he interrupted, a sneer on his lips. “You are the same as ever, I see.”

“You mean that I still don’t believe that you’re better than me?” he asked wryly. “Because you’re damn right about that.  Now, I believe you wanted to have a conversation with my son.  I’d suggest you make it quick, because I’m running pretty low on patience.”

“Very well,” Stiles’ grandfather sighed. “Have a seat, then.  May I offer you anything to drink?”

“No, thank you,” John said stiffly, but Stiles shrugged and asked for a Coke.  A man in a starched white shirt that he hadn’t noticed before swept from the room at his request, like his life’s only goal was to make sure that Stiles got a Coke right away.

“What do you know about your mother’s family, Maczysz?” he asked, settling into his seat with perfect posture, like he was afraid the whole thing would fall apart if he didn’t hold himself just right.

“Um,” Stiles said, giving up on getting him to drop his real name. “I know you’re my grandpa…”

He wrinkled his nose in distaste and waved away Stiles’ words.

“Absolutely not,” he interrupted. “I will not have you calling me that vulgar American gram-paw!  You may call me Grandpère, in the proper French of your mother’s country.  You do speak French, don’t you?”

“Well, mom and I used to speak French all the time,” he said, realizing suddenly that he’d forgotten the soft lilt of his mother’s accent until Grandpère brought it up. “But it’s been a while.”

“So you’ll need French tutoring,” Grandpère said thoughtfully, and another white-shirted man began taking notes on a tablet. “Michel, make a note to contact Paolo, something needs to be done about that dreadful mop on his head.”

“Uh,” Stiles objected, glancing at his dad, but John was just massaging his temples in exasperation. “I don’t need French tutoring because I’m taking Italian now?  Also I _really_ don’t need you to make a hair appointment for me.  I’m almost seventeen, I can handle calling Supercuts.”

“Supercuts,” Grandpère said, shuddering. “No grandson of mine is going to be seen in a _Supercuts_ , I can assure you of that.”

“Do you seriously think you can show up out of nowhere and decide to run my life?” Stiles demanded. “Because I don’t know how they run things over in Europe, but here in America we get to choose where we get our own hair cut, so…”

“Do you know,” Grandpère interrupted, as if he didn’t even hear Stiles protest, “Who Jean-Philippe Grimaldi Renaldo is?”

“Uh, no?” Stiles said, surprised enough at the random misdirection to stop mid-rant.

“What about Fabian Nicolas Grimaldi Renaldo?”

“I have no idea,” Stiles snapped. “I don’t see what any of this…”

“Or Clarisse Claudia Grimaldi Renaldo?” He asked loudly, speaking right over Stiles’ protests.

“No!” Stiles snapped. “I don’t know who any of these people are!”

“Of course you don’t,” Grandpère scoffed contemptuously. “Because you have received an unfortunate American education, and you’ve been raised in ignorance…”

“We all agreed it was for the best!” Stiles’ dad interrupted. “You especially!”

“What the hell is going on?” Stiles demanded, not sure if he was talking to Grandpère or his father or both.

“Clarisse Claudia Grimaldi Renaldo was the Princess of Genovia,” Grandpère explained impatiently. “She was the younger sister of Prince Jean-Philippe and the aunt of Crown Prince Fabian, both of whom died rather tragically two days ago, leaving Genovia without an heir apparent.”

“That’s super unfortunate,” Stiles said slowly, looking between his dad, who looked angry and stressed and sad, and Grandpère, who looked bland and emotionless. “I’m very sorry for Genovia, but I don’t understand what this has anything to do with me.”

“Oh, but it has everything to do with you,” Grandpère said, looking as though this very fact pained him. “For you see, Clarisse Claudia Grimaldi Renaldo chose, eighteen years ago, to move to the United States to go to university.  It was there that she met a man and chose to shirk all of her responsibilities to her country in order to stay with him.  When they married, she changed her name to Claudia Stilinski.”

The room went utterly silent then, or maybe Stiles was just so surprised that he could only hear his own blood rushing in his ears. He knew his jaw was dropped open, but he didn’t care to close it.  Instead, he looked at his dad, not sure what he was looking for, but knowing that he wouldn’t find it.  John just looked back at him, guilt and uncertainty warring over his face.  Finally, he looked back at Grandpère, who was sipping, unconcerned, on his whiskey neat.  A coke, poured into a tall glass, appeared on a coaster on the table in front of Stiles.  He just stared at it for a long moment before managing to choke out,

_“What?”_

“Your mother was the Princess of Genovia,” Grandpère explained slowly, like he thought Stiles was stupid. “Despite her gross misconduct in abandoning her post to cavort with her lessers, you are her trueborn son, and that makes you Maczysz Philippe Grimaldi Renaldo, Hereditary Prince of Genovia.”

“You forgot Stilinski,” he offered, because his brain was too busy buzzing in giant, panic-driven circles to think of anything else.

“I certainly did not,” Grandpère said firmly. “Now you understand, this was completely unprecedented. Fabian was meant to ascend to the throne, and _you_ were meant to stay here in America, to live out your life in anonymity, sparing the Renaldo family from shame…”

“We didn’t hide it from him because he’s shameful,” Stiles’ dad spat. “We hid it from him because it wasn’t relevant, and we wanted him to grow up a normal, happy kid.  He didn’t need to live his whole life with cameras being shoved in his face!”

“Of course, now everything is different,” Grandpère continued as if John hadn’t spoken. “Now, you are the last legitimate Renaldo blood relative.  If you refuse the throne, it will pass along to the Von Trokens, and Genovia will cease to exist as we know it.”

“He’s sixteen years old!” John protested angrily. “How can you put that on his shoulders?”

“It is not I who puts that weight there, but the terms of his birth-right!” Grandpère insisted. “As of two days ago, he _is_ the Hereditary Prince of Genovia, and so he shall remain until he abdicates or is coronated…”

“Wait,” Stiles said, his brain suddenly catching up with all the implications. “Coronated?  You want me to be _king_ of a country?”

“Of course not,” Grandpère snapped. “Genovia is a principality, there are no kings.  You will be a prince, but you will be the ruling monarch of the nation.”

“But...it’s just like a figurehead thing, right?” Stiles asked, panicked. “I don’t have to actually _rule a country_.”

“Michel, make a note, the prince will also need lessons in Genovian history and politics,” Grandpère said, sounding bored. “Genovia is ruled by its prince, you foolish boy, of course you will rule. True power is derived by divine right.”

“Divine right,” Stiles repeated hysterically. “Like...God wants me to rule a small principality in Europe.  Okay, sure.  Yeah.  That’s not insane at all.”

“As unbelievable as you may find it, you _are_ the Hereditary Prince now,” Grandpère said firmly. “And it’s high time you start learning to act like it.  I will not have Genovia be humiliated...”

“I want to abdicate,” Stiles interrupted him, totally aware that his voice was squeaky with hysteria and not caring a single bit.

“You can’t do that!” Grandpère gasped, like Stiles had just slapped him in the face.

“Well, I can’t be a prince!” Stiles insisted.

“You are the _only_ option,” Grandpère said irritably. “As much as I wish that weren’t the case, there is no changing that.”

“What about those other guys?” Stiles demanded. “The Von-Whatevers?”

“I will be cold in my grave before I let Siegfried Von Troken sit on the Genovian throne, I can assure you of that,” Grandpère growled. “The Renaldos have held the throne since Genovia’s conception and I will not allow you…”

“I can’t rule a country!  I can’t even keep a hamster alive!  There is a pet embargo at the Stilinski house!” Stiles insisted. “Wouldn’t you rather have someone who knows what they’re doing over someone with the right last name?”

“If you abdicate the throne, you are condemning your people-your mother’s people-to a political upheaval to the likes of which Genovia has never seen.  You are too young to make such a foolish decision.”

“It is his decision to make, though,” Stiles’ dad spoke up, staring down Grandpère with hard eyes. “If he doesn’t want to rule, he doesn’t have to, and you’ll force him to over my dead body…”

“The boy can’t be trusted…”

“You’ll trust him to rule your country but not to make his own decisions?” John interrupted. “That’s bullshit.  You’re just trying to do the same thing you always did to Claudia.  You smothered and controlled her until she ran away, and I won’t let that happen to my son.”

“You would put your son before the needs of an entire country?”

“Damn right,” Stiles’ dad barked. “Come on Stiles, we’re going home.”

He was still too shocked and numb to do much more than follow his dad quietly out of the consulate.  No one tried to stop them as they headed out the Jeep, but the security guard at the door bobbed his head in a bow and said, “Have a nice day, Your Highness,” as they left, which was weird and also kind of horrifying.  Apparently everyone had known but him.

They were nearly to Beacon Hills before he remembered how to properly execute a sentence, which really said a lot about his state of mind.  Stiles was a world-class talker.

“Have you always known?” he asked hoarsely.

His father tightened his hands on the steering wheel, keeping his eyes firmly on the road, but Stiles suspected that that was more of an excuse to avoid his eyes than about making a good example as the sheriff.

“Of course I knew,” he said finally, his shoulders dropping as he let out a sigh. “I mean, when I met your mother I thought she was just an international student and nothing more.  I followed her around like a puppy dog for a few weeks before she got tired of waiting for me to ask her out and did the asking herself.”

He smiled then, the soft, fond smile that Stiles always associated with good memories of his mother.

“So...at what point did she tell you she was a princess?” Stiles asked.

He was suddenly struck with a memory from his childhood.  They had, as a family, sat and watched _the Princess Bride_.  Stiles had been enraptured with Buttercup, declaring her to be the most beautiful lady he’d ever seen, and then he’d declared that his mommy was so beautiful that she must have been a princess too.  She’d laughed until she cried, and Stiles had never quite understood why until now.

“After she got pregnant, she told me,” John said. “She sat me down all seriously, and I was just sure she was going to break up with me.  And then she told me all about it, and how she’d felt so smothered her entire life.  How she loved her country, but she could never just be Princess Clarisse, and that was why she’d gone to school in the United States in the first place.  She wasn’t first in line for the throne, of course, so it was much easier for her to break ties.”

“I’m surprised Grandpère let her go,” Stiles mused. “He seems really intense.”

“He didn’t,” John admitted with a frown. “Your grandfather is the Dowager Prince.  He was born into Polish aristocracy, he’s not Genovian by blood.  He gave up his Polish citizenship in favor of Genovian when he married your grandmother, but she was the ruling monarch.  When she died, he took up the throne, but only until your uncle turned eighteen.  When Jean-Philippe ascended to the throne, he gave your mother permission to move the US to go to school.  Your grandfather wasn’t happy about it, but he also couldn’t openly contest Jean-Philippe without offending his authority.”

“This is crazy,” Stiles insisted. “Absolutely insane.  Didn’t you ever think, ‘hmmm, maybe one day my spastic son will have to rule a country’?”

“Not really,” he sighed. “We knew you were, technically, third in line for the throne, but we never thought that it would really impact your life.  We never expected this to happen.”

Stiles had to admit, it was pretty unlikely that the monarch and the first two in line would all die within ten years of each other.  It was real life, after all, not _Game of Thrones_.  Still, he should have known it was a possibility.  He should have known at some point Genovia might come knocking.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” he asked.

“When you turned eighteen,” John said. “But we’d never planned on going public with it.  It didn’t really seem...relevant.”

“Not relevant,” Stiles snorted. “‘Oh hey, son, welcome to adulthood.  Also you’re a prince of a small country, happy birthday!’”

“We thought we were doing what was best,” his dad sighed. “We just wanted you to be a normal kid."

"Well apparently I'm not a normal kid," Stiles snapped. "Apparently I'm Heir Apparent to the throne of Genovia, and I have no idea how to even begin to process that information."

John sighed and hit his blinker, pulling into a gas station at the side of the road.  Stiles wanted to complain about avoidance, but he also wanted his dad to put gas in his tank, so he held his tongue and glowered as his dad pumped the gas and then went inside to pay.

He was just so angry and confused and he felt betrayed. He hadn't gotten nearly enough time with his mother, and now he was finding out that he'd never even really known her at all. His whole life had been built around a bunch of secrets and a huge lie, and now he wasn't sure about anything. Suddenly, compelled by his anger, he got out of the car and started off down the side of the road. He didn't want to even look at his dad, and he certainly didn't want to talk about Genovia anymore.

He needed time to think.

It was only a few minutes before his dad called, but he let it ring through to voicemail. He did send a text, though, just so his dad would know he hadn't been kidnapped or something.  He was pissed off, but he didn’t want his dad to worry.  It wasn’t good for his heart.

He powered off his phone and then ducked into the tree line that marked the edge of the Beacon Hills Preserve. If he stayed on the road, his dad would surely see him and make him get in the car, and he just didn’t think he could deal with that. He was fairly certain he could find his way through the woods, since he had a general sense of which direction the Hale house was in.

He walked slowly, focusing on the ground so that he wouldn’t trip over anything and hurt himself.  It would be just his luck to run off into the woods in a fit of pique and then fall and kill himself.  Sure, he was kind of freaking out about his life being turned on it’s head, but he didn’t think getting terribly injured and being trapped in the woods until hypothermia or a wild animal came to claim him was a particularly good coping mechanism.

Neither, probably, was getting overly dramatic about the dangers of the Preserve.

He wasn’t sure how long he walked before he realized that he actually had no idea where he was.  All he could see in every direction was trees, and as far as he could tell he’d only been walking in a straight line, so by all rights he should have reached the Hale house already.

He was just about to turn his phone back on and try to google map his way out of there when he heard the tell-tale sign of something moving through the undergrowth towards him.  He prayed that it wasn’t a mountain lion or something equally as capable of killing him.

Just as he was beginning to work up a really good panic, though, Derek Hale appeared around the bend of the trees.  He was wearing a pair of basketball shorts and a tight under armour t-shirt that highlighted all of his assets in a truly glorious fashion.  He had an iPod strapped to his bulging bicep, and even though his hair was matted down with sweat, he still looked like a sex god.  

It was so unfair.

He came to a stop when he saw Stiles, yanking his earbuds out and tossing the cord over his shoulder as he took a couple of deep breaths.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked, looking around in confusion like he expected someone else to step out of the trees and provide an explanation.  Stiles tore his eyes away from the beautiful contrast of the black iPod strap against his tanned arm and stared at him stupidly for a moment before he remembered that people usually answered when they were asked a question.

“Oh, uh...got in a fight with my dad and decided to walk home.”

It wasn’t entirely true, but it wasn’t totally false, either.  And like hell he was going to tell Cora’s brother that he’d just found out he was actually royalty and heir to a throne.  If he even actually believed Stiles, he’d definitely tell Cora about it, and then the whole world would know in about three seconds flat.  Cora was a lot of things, but quiet certainly wasn’t one of them.  Stiles was still kind of hoping that he could quietly abdicate and move on with his life without anyone knowing about it.

“You got in a fight with your dad?” Derek asked, sounding like he didn’t believe it.

“What, it happens!” Stiles insisted stubbornly.  He knew that he and his dad were closer than most teenagers were with their parents, but that didn’t mean they didn’t still argue about stuff.  Sometimes it was stupid and pointless, and other times it was because of lifelong lies.  Whatever.

“I believe you,” Derek shrugged. “But that doesn’t really explain what you’re doing here.  You’re about two miles from the highway.”

“I was trying to find your house so I could figure out how to get home,” Stiles admitted, and Derek snorted with laughter.

“Well, I can tell you you’re about half a mile away and that my house is that way,” he said, pointing in the opposite direction of which Stiles had been heading.  Stiles scowled at him, like it was his fault, but Derek just kept grinning. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

Stiles thought, for a moment, about protesting and insisting that Derek finish his run, but then he realized that it was just stupid to wander around in the woods by himself when someone was offering to show him the way, so he just nodded and started walking.  Derek fell into step beside him, like they casually saw each other outside of school all the time.

Well, Stiles supposed, they did, because he spent almost as much time at the Hale house as he did at Scott’s.  But that was with Cora between them to act as a buffer, where Stiles was the annoying friend and Derek was the hot older brother.  It wasn’t like they took strolls through the woods together, like friends.

“So why are you pissed off at your dad?” Derek asked as they crunched over leaves that had fallen recently enough to still be red and orange and yellow instead of the dull gray they took on after the first snowfall.  The air smelled like mulch and tree sap, and the wind was starting to take on a slight chill as the sun lowered towards the horizon, filtering through the trees in blasts of blinding orange light.  Stiles stuffed his hands into his hoodie pockets and shrugged.

“It’s kind of hard to explain,” he said. “I guess...I just found out that he’s been lying to me about something for a really long time, and it’s kind of having a huge impact on my life.  I’m just angry, at him and at my mom, which is so fucked up because she’s _dead_ …”

“Sounds pretty heavy,” Derek offered awkwardly.

Again, Stiles shrugged.  He knew he probably wasn’t making much sense, and that Derek had never lost anyone, especially not a parent, so he couldn’t really understand.  But he gave him props for at least trying.

“Yeah,” he agreed with a frown. “And I know that I’m gonna have to get over it, you know?  This lie was so huge that it’s literally impossible for me to ignore it, and I love my dad so it’s not like I’m never gonna speak to him again.  But I just kind of want to be mad at him for a while, even though that sounds kind of stupid.”

“I think it makes sense,” Derek said, ducking under a low-hanging branch. “I’m always pissed off at my mom about stupid stuff, because sometimes it’s the only way that I can feel in control sometimes.  She can make me do what she wants, since she’s my mom and I live in her house, but she can’t make me not be mad at her if I feel like it.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said slowly, thinking about that.  He could see the Hale house now, rising up over the tops of the trees rather suddenly, like it had just appeared there. “Thanks.”

“No problem.  Everyone’s gotta have teen angst bullshit, right?” he asked, glancing sideways at Stiles with a tiny smile on his face.

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed, knocking their elbows together. “I guess so.”

Mrs. Hale was sitting on the front porch  with a book when they broke the tree line and entered the yard.  She looked up at them and called hello, and Stiles waved back dutifully at her.  Derek’s mom was super intimidating, exactly the kind of woman that he imagined Lydia would grow up to be like.  Except she was a mom, so it was less arousing and more terrifying.  She was a nice enough lady, but she always made Stiles feel vaguely like she could kill him with her pinky finger without breaking a sweat.

“It’s getting a bit late to be playing in the woods,” she admonished when they got close enough. Derek scoffed and rolled his eyes at the idea that they’d been playing.

“I was just going for a walk and got kind of turned around,” Stiles told her, rocking back on his heels under her piercing stare. “Derek helped me find my way back.”

“Well,” she said, her eyes drifting out towards the trees. “It’s getting late.  You should get home, your dad will worry.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said noncommittally. “Sorry, Mrs. Hale.”

He gave Derek an awkward wave, suddenly remembering that they weren’t really friends, exactly, and so not sure how he should say goodbye.  With Scott, he would have gone for a high five or a fist bump, or sometimes even a hug, but Derek was super hot and a senior and Cora’s older brother and Stiles was...not.  Derek offered him a nod-which was _so much cooler_ than a wave, why hadn’t he thought of that?- and Stiles turned on his heel and started down the long driveway.

“Stiles, honey,” Mrs. Hale called. “Why don’t you wait a minute and Derek will give you a ride?  It’s going to be dark soon and there aren’t many streetlights between here and the edge of town.”

“Um, sure,” Stiles said, drawing to a stop and waiting while Derek went inside to grab his mother’s purse for her.

Within a few minutes they were in Derek’s mother’s SUV, Derek glancing wistfully at his dad’s gorgeous black Camaro as they pulled out of the garage, and making their way down the long driveway.

“Do you want to go home?” Derek asked him, glancing away from the road to stare at him for a long moment. “I don’t have long but I could…”

“Could you take me to Scott’s?” Stiles interrupted him gratefully.

“Oh,” Derek said, planting his eyes firmly back on the road again. “Yeah, sure.”

“Thanks, man,” Stiles sighed, leaning his forehead against the window to watch the trees flash by. “I’m just not ready to go home and get reamed out by my dad yet.”

“I get it,” Derek assured him. “I mean, my mom’s scary, but she doesn’t have a gun.”

Stiles snorted softly.

“Yeah, my dad has a gun, but he would never use it on _me_.  He’s a marshmallow, really.  I’d rather go toe-to-toe with my dad ten times than take on your mom once.  I’m pretty sure she’d eat me alive.”

“She’s not that bad,” Derek insisted, but he was smirking all the same, like he knew it was an utter lie.

“Your mom is terrifying,” Stiles told him solemnly. “Which probably explains your sisters.  I mean, I respect the hell out of all of them, but I also think it’s healthy to be very afraid.”

“Probably,” Derek admitted, and the car went quiet.

“But I like that in a woman,” Stiles added quickly, afraid that it was going to get awkward. “Just like Lydia Martin, you know?  She could literally use me as a footstool and I’d thank her for it.”

Derek made a noncommittal noise that mostly sounded like a grunt, and then the car really did descend into awkward silence, so Stiles pressed on, babbling about Lydia in order to fill the spaces.  It was a good choice, because he could talk about her for _hours_.  Derek, however, didn’t seem to agree, and he practically screeched to a stop in front of Scott’s house, and then peeled away with a squeal as soon as Stiles was out of the car.  He didn’t even have time to close the door all the way, but it slammed shut with the sudden movement.

Stiles was still blinking in surprise when Derek tore around the corner.  He knew his Lydia talk could get annoying, but he’d never quite gotten _that_ reaction before.

“Okay,” he said, to the night air. “Bye.”

“Stiles?”

Scott, apparently having heard the screech of Derek’s tires, had his head poked out his bedroom window and was looking down at him, squinting slightly with his head cocked, the picture of a confused puppy dog.

“What are you doing here?  Your dad called, he’s pissed.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured,” Stiles sighed. “Can I come up?”

“Dude, of course,” Scott said earnestly, like it was an absolutely ridiculous question. “Mom’s doing a night shift, so just come in through the front door.  It’s unlocked.”

Stiles let himself in, flipping the deadbolt behind him, and he stopped in the kitchen to grab himself a Coke and a package of Oreos from the cupboard before heading up the stairs to Scott’s room.  Scott was lounging on his bed, frowning up at his copy of _Awakening_ that they were reading for English Lit, when Stiles let himself in to his room.

“I don’t get this,” Scott complained, looking bereft. “She’s just like...going to the beach and taking off her clothes and there’s a parrot…”

“It’s a feminism thing,” Stiles said. “Like she’s freeing herself from societal expectations by not dressing properly. And the bird is supposed to be her.”

“Oh,” Scott said with a frown.  He still didn’t look like he understood.

“Just read the SparkNotes, that’s what I did.  But later, man, I’ve got to tell you something.”

Scott apparently picked up on his seriousness, because he set the book aside and sat up.  Stiles huffed a breath and threw himself down at the end of Scott’s bed, cracking open his Coke and taking a long drink.  Scott helpfully peeled back the top on the cookies and grabbed a couple before pushing the package back towards Stiles.

“So my dad brought me down to Sacramento today,” he said, and because Scott was his best friend and totally awesome, he gasped appropriately and said,

“But your dad _hates_ Sacramento.”

“I know!” Stiles exclaimed, throwing his free hand up for emphasis. “He brought me there to see my mother’s father…”

“The European guy who’s ignored you your whole life?”

“The very same!” Stiles said.  This was why Scott was his best friend.  He _understood_ Stiles.

“So what did he want?” Scott asked.

“That’s the really fucking weird part, man.  I get there and he starts going on about how I’ll need all these lessons and a haircut and stuff, and then he started asking me if I knew who all these famous Genovian people were, which, duh, I had no idea.  And finally he basically just called me an idiot and told me that my mother was a princess!”

Scott stared at him, his mouth twitching uncertainly like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to start laughing or not.  After a moment, when he realized that Stiles was totally serious, his eyes got really wide and he leaned closer like they were sharing a super-intense secret.

“Dude, what?” he demanded. “Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack, man!” Stiles cried. “Like, for real, he showed up out of nowhere to tell me that a) my mom is a princess, b) my uncle and cousin-who I’d never met before, by the way-are dead, and c) apparently I’m the last person left to inherit the throne!”

“You’re fucking with me,” Scott said uncertainly. “Like this is just one of your weird jokes, right?”

“Dude, I wish it was,” Stiles grumbled, scrubbing at his face with his hand. “Like, I so wish I was.”

Scott continued to stare at him, eyes wide and mouth agape.  He snapped his jaw shut and then it fell open again, over and over a few times until he looked like a goldfish gasping for breath.  Finally, he seemed to get a handle on his surprise and shoved a whole Oreo in his mouth.

“Holy shit,” he said through a mouthful of crumbs. “You’re gonna be a king?”

“Genovia is a principality, there are no kings,” Stiles told him automatically, and then gave himself a mental shake. “But even if there were, _no way in hell._  I already told him I’m gonna abdicate.”

“Why?” Scott asked, and bless his heart he was actually serious.

“Dude, because!” Stiles said, “I can’t rule a country, are you crazy?  I can’t even keep a hamster alive!  My dad literally banned me from having any more pets because we’ve got an actual _Pet Sematary_ situation in the backyard.”

“Have you even seen _Pet Sematary_?” Scott asked, looking doubtful. “Because I’m pretty sure it’s about zombies.”

“Not the point, Scotty.”

“Right, okay.  So...I mean, are you sure you don’t want to be a prince?  Because just think about how popular you’d be.  Like, everyone would want to be friends with a prince.”

“Yeah, or it will totally cement my place as social pariah.” Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Lydia would probably be into it,” Scott wheedled, and Stiles took a moment to think about Lydia as Princess Consort, looking gorgeous in a ball gown with a sparkling tiara settled in her strawberry-blonde hair.

“You think?” he asked, even though he already knew she probably would.

“Totally, man,” Scott insisted.

He had to admit, the idea was tempting.  Sweeping into school as Prince Stiles with all eyes on him.  Lydia would drop Jackson in a hot second, he knew, and he’d get to lord around and hold court with her on his arm.  She’d be a great princess, too.  She was incredibly smart and could act as his most trusted advisor, and she could rule a country just like someone that glorious _should_.

The fantasy was ruined by the reminder that he’d actually have to rule a country, though.  It was all well and good to imagine it being all tiaras and power and Lydia Martin finally realizing that they belonged together, but in reality it would be a shitton of work and politics, and Stiles was just so not here for it.  Not at all.

“Nah,” he said. “I’ve still got my ten year plan.  I’ll win Lydia over with that, and I won’t have to rule a country.”

“Okay, man,” Scott said doubtfully. “If you say so.  Does anyone else know?”

“Dude, no!” Stiles said quickly. “Like, no, definitely not.  No one can know about this, all right?  You’ve gotta promise you won’t tell anyone.”

“Of course,” Scott said, because he was loyal and amazing. “Is that what you and your dad are fighting about?”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighed, stuffing an Oreo in his mouth and then talking around it. “He’s lied to me my whole life, you know?”

“Yeah,” Scott said, twisting his own cookie in half and licking the frosting out thoughtfully. “But I mean, he’s your dad.  He’s a good guy.  He probably thought he was doing the right thing.”

“Scotty,” Stiles sighed. “I’m not sure you’re picking up the flow of this conversation here.  I’m mad at my dad, I really don’t need you defending his awful choices.”

“Sorry,” Scott said, contrite. “But I mean...he’s your dad.”

Stiles sighed, not wanting to press too hard against Scott’s daddy issues at the moment.  He knew, logically, that Scott’s dad was spawn of satan and that Stiles had won the dad lottery, but he wasn’t looking for logic and reason, he was looking for commiseration.

“I know,” he said. “I’ve gotta talk to him eventually.  But right now I kind of just want to pretend he doesn’t exist.”

Scott hummed thoughtfully, and they muched on cookies quietly for a few minutes, lost in thought.  Stiles shifted uncomfortably, so not ready for any sort of heart to heart.  He’d hoped that Scott could distract him from his troubles, not make him sit in silence and dwell on them.

“Wanna play Little Big Planet?” Scott asked abruptly, because he was the _best_ best friend ever.

“Yeah,” Stiles said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, stretching out to grab the Playstation controllers. “Let’s do it.”

* * *

 

Stiles put off going home until nearly midnight, so by the time he let himself in the front door, the house was dark and his father had already gone to bed.  He knew it was going to be a really short reprieve, but he was thankful for it all the same.  After the day he had, he really didn’t want to fight with his dad well into the night.

He didn’t bother to turn his phone back on, just plugged it in and shoved it under his pillow before stripping off his jeans and hoodie and crawling into bed.  His problems could wait until tomorrow.

\---

As it turned out, letting his problems wait until tomorrow had been a _terrible_ plan.

It all started out fine.  He woke up without his dad standing over him with a glare on his face and managed to get through a shower without anything horrendous happening.  That should have made him suspicious, because there was nothing his dad loved more than a good scolding and a i’m-not-mad-just-disappointed face.

Stiles finally figured out what the deal was when he thundered down their stairs to grab some breakfast and found Grandpère seated primly at the dining room table.  He was staring disdainfully down at the mug set before him, a large white one that read ‘Sheriff by day, zombie slayer by night’ that Stiles had gotten his dad about a million years ago.  He looked up, though, when Stiles entered the room with a loud,

“Hey, Daddi-ooooohmygod!”

He turned on his heel and made to escape back upstairs, but it was far too late.  His less than stealthy entrance had, of course, gained everyone’s attention, and Grandpère called for him to “come back this instant!” at the same time as his dad barked, “Stop right there, kid.”

Stiles froze with one foot on the bottom stair, contemplating just how much shit he’d be in if he ignored them and went upstairs anyway.

“About face,” his dad demanded, and his voice was super-serious, so Stiles sighed and turned back towards them with his very best pout.  Neither of them seemed too concerned about it, so he rolled his eyes instead and slunk back to the table, taking a seat.

“Listen kid,” his dad sighed, taking his own seat at the table. “I know this whole situation sucks, but we’ve got to sort it out.”

“It’s sorted out!” Stiles insisted, while Grandpère muttered darkly under his breath. “I’m abdicating, remember?”

“You can’t just make such an irrational decision and end an entire dynasty!” Grandpère insisted hotly. “The Renaldos have sat on the throne of Genovia since the year 568 A.D.!”

“Well, obviously it’s time for a bit of a change then, isn’t it?” Stiles shot back, widening his eyes like he’d just had the best idea ever. “Time to shake things up in Genovia a little bit…”

“You insolent little brat!” Grandpère spat back. “This throne is your legacy.  It is your mother’s legacy, and you are the only one left to carry it on!”

John groaned and buried his face in his folded arm on top of the table, shaking his head slightly as they argued back and forth.  Stiles ignored him, because it was _his fault_ he let the crazy European dude into their kitchen that early in the morning.

“I have no interest in carrying it on,” Stiles spat back. “Newsflash there, gramps.  I’m an American.  We’re super fond of democracy, not so here for the monarchy.”

“Well, of course, you’ll have to give up your American citizenship before you take the throne…”

“I’m not taking the throne!”

“You most certainly are!”

“Enough!” John thundered suddenly, making them both jump. “You two are going to make me crazy.  I have a compromise.”

They both looked at him distrustfully, Stiles crossing his arms over his chest sullenly, and Grandpère narrowing his eyes as if expecting some sort of trick.

“Maczysz, when is the latest that you can put off coming up with an heir?”

“ _Prince_ Maczysz, to commoners,” Grandpère corrected haughtily, to which John rolled his eyes. Grandpère pursed his lips prissily and continued, “I can only put it off for so long.  Rightfully, Maczysz should have taken up the throne as soon as Jean-Phillipe and Fabian passed.  However, due to his age, that would be quite inappropriate.  Of course, I would rule as Prince Regent until his eighteenth birthday, as I did for Jean-Philippe.”

“Of course,” Stiles muttered under his breath.  Maybe that was Grandpère’s goal.  To keep on ruling with Stiles as his little figurehead puppet.  Grandpère shot him a dark, angry look and continued loudly,

“ _However_ , with no heir apparent and me having married into the Renaldo name, it will be viewed as quite improper.  There is no way that I can keep his existence from the Von Trokens, but I suppose it can be kept from the media and the general public for a few weeks, if we are very careful.  Perhaps until the Genovian Independence Day Ball in December.  But the boy desperately needs instruction.”

“Okay!” John said quickly, latching on an answer. “So, until your ball, Stiles promises that he will attend whatever lessons that you want to give him that you think he’ll need to be a prince.”

“What?” Stiles cried, betrayed.

“And!” John interrupted loudly. “Stiles agrees that he will neither accept nor reject your offer of royalty until the ball.  Okay?”

The sharp look he tossed them both had Stiles slumping in his chair, but he muttered out a petulant, “okay.”

“I suppose I have no other choice,” Grandpère sniffed. “These terms are agreeable.”

“Great,” John said, with feeling. “So, that’s settled. Stiles will meet with you after school…”

“Every day,” Grandpère interrupted. “I’ve got to mash a lifetime’s worth of etiquette and education into the boy’s brain in only a few weeks, so we’ll need all the time we can get.”

“Every day!” Stiles started to protest, “I’ve got a life, you know!”

“After the way you ran off last night?” his dad interrupted. “I don’t think so.  You’re on lock-down, kid.  School and prince lessons and that’s it for you for the next two weeks.”

Stiles opened his mouth to argue, but the dark look his dad shot him made him reconsider.  Talking his way out of trouble was all well and good, but he knew that look.  Talking would only make it worse.

“Lessons will be held at the consulate in Sacramento,” Grandpère continued, as if he hadn’t even taken notice of their conversation.

“Okay, and I guess you’ll be filling my gas tank?” Stiles retorted, partly because he wanted to be as difficult as possible and partly because gas really was expensive.

“That is acceptable,” Grandpère agreed, to Stiles’ surprise. “I’ll expect you promptly at three o’ clock, Maczycsz.  Now I must go, I’m late for a meeting.”

“Uh, okay,” Stiles agreed a bit dumbly as Grandpère stood up and swept from the room, leaving the mug of tea totally untouched.  A large man in a suit that Stiles hadn’t even noticed before stood up from the couch and followed him out the door.  He was clearly a bodyguard, and it kinda freaked Stiles out, to think that someone that big and probably deadly had been sitting behind him the whole time and he hadn’t noticed.

“You know that I can’t do this, right?” Stiles asked his dad after they were alone. “Like… be a prince, rule a country.  I _can’t_.”

“I think you sell yourself short,” his dad said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “But I know you’ve gotta make your own decision about this.  I just want you to make an educated decision.  I don’t think you should say no before you see what it’s really about.”

“I guess,” Stiles sighed.

“Besides, I think your mother would really want you to try…”

“That’s a low blow,” Stiles snapped, suddenly remembering that he was pissed off at his dad.

“I’m sorry, I’m not trying to manipulate you.  Just that I know your mother…”

“Well I’m glad one of us did!” Stiles snapped.  He pushed himself up from the table and headed for the front door, snatching his backpack up from the front hall as he passed.

“Stiles!” his dad called after him, sounding tired.

“I’m going to school!” Stiles yelled over his shoulder, letting the door slam, loud and satisfying, as he left the house.

* * *

 

“Hey Stilinski!”

Stiles sighed and slammed his locker door shut, turning to face Jackson Whittemore who was coming down the hall at him with purpose and a pissy expression on his face.

“Jackson,” he drawled. “Always a pleasure.  What can I do for you this fine day?”

“How about you call off your dog?” Jackson growled, getting up in Stiles’ face, trying to be intimidating with his size even though Stiles was at least two inches taller than him.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Stiles admitted honestly, heaving an internal sigh of relief because apparently Jackson still hadn’t figured out that it was Stiles who’d keyed his Porsche.

“That petition to cut swimming that your little freak of a girlfriend is passing around?  I want it dead.”

“Okay, firstly, Cora’s not my girlfriend.  Secondly, I don’t know why you think I have any power to stop her from doing what she wants to do, and thirdly, you’re an asshole and your breath smells like stale cheetos so it would be great if you could back up off of me…”

Jackson slammed his fist into the locker next to Stiles’ head-which he hated to admit made him jump- and snarled at him.  Like legitimately snarled.

“I already talked to Cora and she blew me off.  You need to put a leash on your bitch, Stilinski...”

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

Jackson stopped suddenly at the voice and looked over his shoulder to find Derek Hale, standing with his posse like a leather-clad white knight.  He was smiling pleasantly, but Stiles could see it was a forced look and that he was about three seconds away from punching Jackson’s face in.

“I, uh,” Jackson said, straightening out and trying to save face. “Stilinski and I were just having a talk.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Derek said, still pleasant. “About my little sister.”

Jackson stared at him for a long moment, like he was trying to figure out if there was anything he could say to salvage the situation.  Finally, he seemed to decide there wasn’t, because he rolled his eyes and muttered, “Whatever” before stalking away.  Derek let him go, even though Erica kind of looked like she wanted to chase him down the hall and kick him in the head.

“You okay?” Derek asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Stiles said, feeling stupid that Derek had to come to his rescue. “He was just being Jackson.”

“You let me know if he bothers you again,” Derek said, and Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Oh my god, I’m not going to run to you and tattle every time Jackson’s an ass.  There wouldn’t be any time left in the day for anything else.  I appreciate you trying to help, man, but it’s really not that big of a deal.”

“I’m serious, Stiles…”

“I am too,” Stiles promised him as the bell rang. “I’ve gotta get to class.  See you later.”

He hitched his bag up on his shoulder and took off down the hall at a quick jog.  He had four minutes to get to chemistry, and he really wasn’t in the mood to deal with Harris’ special brand of asshole if he was late.

He slid into his seat with ten seconds to spare, receiving a displeased glare from Harris, who thrived on having reasons to give Stiles a hard time.  He was one of those tragic cases, a guy who’d been bullied in high school and then went on to be a dick of a teacher to make himself feel powerful.  For some reason, he’d picked Stiles to be his punching bag.  It might, admittedly, have had something to do with Stiles’ complete and total inability to keep his mouth shut.

“Hey,” Scott whispered, leaning across the table towards him. “Did you want to come by after school?  Deaton texted and…”

“Can’t,” Stiles told him mournfully. “I’m grounded, and also Dad is making me go see Grandpère every day after school.”

Scott’s eyes widened as he took that information in.  He glanced around them and whispered, “because of the…” and made a few weird hand gestures that were probably supposed represent his princehood but mostly looked like he was trying to tug a giant leech off his head.

“Yeah,” Stiles sighed. “I’ll tell you about it later.  But really, my social life is pretty much dead for the next two months.”

“That sucks, man…”

“If Mr. Stilinski and Mr. McCall would be kind enough to _stop talking_ , perhaps we could get class started.”

Scott made a face at him and turned his attention back to the front, where Harris was scowling at them.

“Thank you so much for your attention,” he sneered, before addressing the rest of the class.  Stiles just sighed and settled in for a long session of watching the way Lydia Martin’s strawberry blonde tresses swept over her back and shoulders when she moved her head.

* * *

 

The Genovian Consulate was just as big and grand as Stiles remembered it to be.  He’d kind of been hoping that, amidst his shock and betrayal, he’d imagined the oil paintings and oriental rugs, but clearly he hadn’t.

It was one such oriental rug that he studied as he waited for Grandpère to make an appearance, slumped down on a classy cream-colored settee lined in dark wood.  The rug was a deep red and gold brocade number, expensive and plush.  Stiles kind of wanted to kick off his shoes just to see what it would feel like under his toes.  Before he could give in to the temptation, though, Grandpère swept into the room with a man trailing behind him like an obedient puppy.

“Sit up!” he barked at Stiles. “Princes don’t slouch.”

“Apparently they do,” Stiles argued, but sat up anyway.  

He thought bitterly of the invitation he’d received to Scott’s that he’d had to turn down for this.  Hell, he’d rather be helping Cora gather signatures for her petition.  He’d been a bit relieved, earlier, that he’d had a legitimate pre-made excuse when she’d cornered him to demand his help, but now he was thinking getting dismissed by the entire student body, one by one, was the better option.

Grandpère led him out of the parlor and down a large corridor with high ceilings and marble floors.  They passed several closed doors, all of which were made of a beautiful dark-colored wood and carved with delicate designs.  Stiles was sure they were worth more than his Jeep.  He was led into a room at the end of the corridor, one that looked like it could have been an unused office.  The walls were lined with bookcases made of the same dark wood as the door, but there weren’t any books on the shelves.  There was a large desk and a small sitting area, along with a huge, full-length mirror set up against one wall.  It didn’t look like it belonged there, as if someone had been carrying it through, and then set it down and forgot to bring it with them when they left.

“Paolo will be here shortly,” Grandpère informed him. “And then the personal shopper.  We’ll get you fitted for some suits and a tux for the ball, of course, along with some clothing to replace those ill-fitting rags your father has dressed you in.  I’m having some coronets sent from the palace collection so that you may choose which you prefer…”

“Coronets?” Stiles demanded, a little hysterically.  Of all the horrendous things that Grandpère had just listed, that seemed like the worst.

“Honestly, Maczysz, a coronet is a kind of crown…”

“I know what a coronet is,” Stiles snapped. “But why do I need one?”

“As Heir Apparent, it is appropriate to show your status,” Grandpère answered stiffly. “Obviously you will not always wear a coronet, but you will at the Genovian Independence Day ball when you accept your title.”

“You mean when I abdicate,” Stiles corrected.

“Enough of this foolish talk,” Grandpère said, brushing Stiles’ protests away with a wave of his hand. “Stand up and turn, slowly, so that I may look at you.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, but did as he was told.  He was all for fighting the power and challenging authority, but if he was going to be stuck doing this for the next six weeks, he might as well pick his battles.

“Atrocious posture,” Grandpère noted, and his little minion scribbled something down on his iPad. Stiles straightened up automatically, and then wished that he hadn’t. “That hair is an absolute mess, something must be done with it.  Good height, but far too lanky.  Complexion is passable…”

Stile stopped his judgment spin, opening his mouth to argue, but Grandpère continued as if he didn’t notice.

“He has his mother’s eyes and nose,” he said, and Stiles snapped his mouth shut.  He’d known that, of course, but it was kind of nice to hear it from someone who wasn’t his drunk father lamenting about their loss.

“There’s a good foundation,” Grandpère decided, nodding to himself. “He needs a bit of buff and shine, but when we’re through with him, he’ll look very princely indeed.”

“Paolo has arrived, Your Highness,” one of the staff said, poking his head through the doorway. “Shall I send him in?”

“Yes, thank you,” Grandpère said. “Now, Maczysz, I know you get some sort of strange delight out of being contrary, but I’d like to remind you that you agreed to do whatever I said during these lessons, and that includes allowing me to improve your image.”

“You know, I’m pretty sure that’s not what I agreed to,” Stiles said. “But, I will admit that I do need a haircut, and as long as I get final veto on the clothes, I will let you treat me like your own personal life-sized Ken doll.”

“That sounds agreeable,” Grandpère said stiffly, in a way that suggested it wasn’t all that agreeable at all.  Apparently he was picking his battles too.

A man came into the room then, dressed from head-to-toe in black.  He should have looked like an undertaker, but the subtle silver patterns on his waistcoat took it from funeral-chic to something more stylish.  He was balding on top and he had a thick silver ring on each one of his fingers.

“ _Principe!_ ” he said with an Italian accent so thick that Stiles suspected it was fake.  He rushed forward and took Grandpère by the shoulders, kissing both his cheeks with exaggerated “mwah!” noises. “Is wonderful to see you…”

“Yes, yes,” Grandpère said stiffly, taking a large step back out of Paolo’s reach. “Paolo, this is my grandson, Maczysz.”

Paolo turned his eyes on Stiles and looked him over critically from top to bottom.  He noticeably winced as he did so, which, rude.  Stiles scowled back at him, wondering where he got off judging people’s hair when he didn’t even have all of his.

“Ah, yes, _Il Principe Piccolo_!” he said, moving forward to grab Stiles’ shoulders and kiss his cheeks.  He was at least five inches shorter and had to forcibly pull Stiles down so that he could reach. “Though perhaps not so _piccolo_!” he chortled.

“I trust you’ve signed the confidentiality agreements?” Grandpère interrupted, his tone edged with steel.  It didn’t seem to detract from Paolo’s flamboyance and cheer one bit.

“Of course, _Principe_ ,” Paolo agreed. “Paolo would never betray…”

“Excellent,” Grandpère said quickly. “Maczysz, if you’ll excuse me, I am waiting on a call from Monaco.”

He swept quickly from the room without waiting for an answer, clearly ready to get away from Paolo as quickly as possible.  Stiles took assurance in the fact that the guy must be good at his job for Grandpère to deign to put up with him.

“Sit!” Paolo declared, flapping his hands urgently at Stiles, ushering him towards a chair that had been wrangled in front of the mirror by one of the staff. “Tell me, _Principe_ , do you always wear your hair in this fashion?”

“Uh, no,” Stiles said, settling gingerly on the chair. “I haven’t had the chance to get it buzzed lately…”

“Buzzed?” Paolo demanded, horrified.

“Yeah, I usually wear it in a buzzcut…”

“You are very funny,” Paolo said quickly, though he didn’t sound as if he thought Stiles were funny at all. “Very, very, funny.  No worries, _Principe_.  Paolo will fix for you.”

“I mean, I don’t know if it needs fixing,” Stiles insisted. “I actually like having a buzz…”

“Paolo will fix for you,” Paolo insisted loudly, and Stiles rolled his eyes and gave up.  Maybe a change would be nice.

“Okay, but don’t do anything too fancy,” he warned. “Because I have very limited hair-styling ability.”

Paolo gave him a withering look, and then started spraying Stiles’ hair with a spray bottle without answering.  Okay then.  

He focused his attention on his phone instead, flicking through a few ranty texts from Cora and a snapchat of Scott taking a selfie with a big drooly bulldog and let Paolo boss him around.  Apparently that was his life now.  Being royal was just _awesome_.

* * *

 

The next morning found Stiles outside of the Hale house, glancing at the clock on his dashboard and wondering if it was wrong.  Derek and Cora usually were nothing if not punctual, but Stiles had been idling in their driveway for nearly five minutes.  Finally, he sighed, turned the car off, and headed for the front door.  It swung open as he was heading up the porch steps and Derek came out, yelling over his shoulder,

“Cora, Stiles is here!”

Stiles backed up quickly as Derek kept going without looking, almost tumbling backwards off the porch steps before Derek finally faced front, saw him, and ceased his advance.  His eyes went wide and his jaw dropped slightly, which admittedly made Stiles preen a bit.

“Wow,” Derek said. “You look…”

“Different, I know,” Stiles said, making a face.  

It wasn’t as if his overall style had changed, really.  It was still the same jeans-tee-plaid style he usually rocked (and thank god for James, the personal shopper who had assured Grandpère that it was very in-style and fitting for a prince), but it was a bit more...upscale.  And by that, he meant branded.  The jeans were Diesel, the plaid shirt was Gucci, and even the plain black t-shirt he was wearing was Armani.  They were also all tailored.  Really, he was wearing a tailored t-shirt.  

A week’s worth of tailored clothes, all things he had picked out the day before, had appeared at his door at six o'clock that morning.  The guy who delivered them looked kind of dead inside when he brought them up to Stiles’ bedroom and hung them neatly in the closet for him, which was seven kinds of awkward.  Still, Stiles figured he should probably wear them, if only to honor the poor tailor that had probably worked through the night under the threat of Grandpère’s wrath.

Derek looked like he was going to say something else, his eyes flicking over Stiles slowly, but Cora burst through the door like a whirlwind the next moment, tossing her backpack-which looked like a stuffed wolf-over her shoulder.  She came to an abrupt stop the same way Derek had, and then said bluntly,

“What happened to your hair?”

“Oh,” Stiles said, a little surprised at her bluntness, even though he should have been used to it by now.  He actually thought that Paolo had done a good job on his hair.  It was longer than he usually wore it, but still quite a bit shorter than it had been the day before, except for the front, which remained long enough to style.  Paolo had shown him how to tousle it messily in the front with a bit of pomade, and it was easy enough that Stiles thought he’d pulled it off pretty well.  Apparently not.

“I know it’s kinda different…”

“It’s weird,” Cora informed him. “Is this what you were doing yesterday instead of helping me with my petition?  Getting all Queer Eye’d?  Is that shirt _tailored_?”

“Uh, my grandfather kinda strong-armed me into it,” Stiles said, feeling himself deflate just slightly.  Despite all his groaning and complaining the day before, he’d actually thought that he looked pretty good.

“Come on, Cora, we’re gonna be late,” Derek interrupted, heading for the car.  Cora rolled her eyes but followed after him, Stiles bringing up the rear with slumped shoulders.  He knew Cora’s attitude shouldn’t bother him, because she was like that with everyone, but he suddenly felt like a poser playing dress up.

He’d hoped that she’d get over his new look after the first few minutes, but that hope was crushed when she got in the passenger’s seat and saw his new backpack on the floor.  It was actually a leather messenger bag that was probably meant to be used like a briefcase, but it was beautiful and it was the one thing he’d picked out himself and he kind of loved it.

“Holy shit, Stiles,” she said, lifting it into her lap. “This is a Saddleback.  Do you know how much these things cost?  You could probably feed a whole family for a year with the money your grandfather spent on this…”

She continued on and on, critiquing every aspect of all of his wardrobe choices, and even going as far as to shove her hand down the back of his shirt to read the label, despite the fact that it made him swerve into the other lane out of surprise.  Stiles tried to ignore her, as per usual, but the more she ranted, the more pissed off he got, until finally they pulled into a parking space at school with a screech of tires and he snapped.

“Oh my god, Cora, shut up! Why do you have to be such a heinous bitch all the time?”

Cora’s jaw dropped in surprise, and Derek made a choking noise in the backseat that sounded suspiciously like he was forcing down a laugh.  Cora’s surprise only lasted a moment, quick to be replaced by an icy glare.

“Go fuck yourself,” Cora spat, climbing out of the Jeep and slamming the door shut behind her with way more force than his baby should have had to endure.

“So,” Derek said a moment later, breaking the absolute silence that had descended over the car.

“Fuck,” Stiles sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m sorry.”

“She was kind of being a bitch,” Derek shrugged, not looking bothered, even though he’d been ready to punch Jackson Whittemore for saying pretty much the same thing yesterday.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Stiles sighed. “She just…”

“I get it,” Derek assured him. “Cora’s...intense.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed.

He stayed quiet for a moment, not even reaching to unbuckle his seatbelt.  Eventually, though, he heaved another sigh and slid out of the car, Derek following.  The front steps were mostly deserted as they walked up them, since they were running so late, and the late bell rang as they reached the front doors.

“Shit,” Stiles sighed. “I’ll see you later Derek.”

“Yeah,” Derek agreed. “And, for what it’s worth, I really like your hair.”

Stiles spared him a tiny smile and resisted the urge to blush.

“Thanks,” he said, and they smiled at each other for a long moment before a teacher walked past and barked at them to get to class.

He made it to AP English nearly five minutes late, but Ms. Blake only shot him a warning look as he slid into his seat and dug his copy of _Awakening_ out of his bag.  He wasn’t quite sure what, but something caught Lydia Martin’s attention as he set the bag on the floor, and she looked down at it appraisingly before nodding approvingly.

“Nice bag,” she said casually, like it was totally normal for her to be acknowledging his existence.  Stiles gaped at her stupidly, suddenly aware that he’d never actually considered what he’d say if she ever actually spoke to him. “Saddleback?”

“Uh...yeah.”

“Chic,” she said, and then focused her attention back on Ms. Blake like nothing significant had happened.  

As if she hadn’t finally acknowledged him after years of him trying to get even a hello out of her.  He resisted the urge to flail, trying to stay cool and collected.  He ducked his head and grinned down at the desk before resting his chin on his hand.  So what if his elbow slipped off the edge of the desk and he almost face-planted?  Lydia Martin had talked to him, and letting his grandfather bully him into a makeover was probably the best decision he’d ever made.

* * *

 

Approaching Cora at lunch with a huge specialty cupcake decorated like a werewolf was probably the scariest thing Stiles had ever done.  Still, he’d skipped fourth period to make a quick trip to Night of the Living Bread-a bakery downtown that did all their wares in a monster movie theme-in order to pay six dollars for a cupcake, so come hell or high water he was at least going to try to give it to her.

She was sitting outside on one of the stone benches with her lunch and a laptop, designing a flyer to draw people’s attention to the swimming issue.  Since it was the first week of November, most people had retreated indoors to the cafeteria to avoid the crisp fall air.  Stiles was kind of relieved.  At least if Cora shoved the cupcake in his face there would be less witnesses.

“Heeeeey, Cora,” he greeted, sliding onto the bench across from her and pushing the cupcake box across the table like an offering.  Cora didn’t even acknowledge his presence.

“Come on, Cora,” he wheedled, rocking the box back and forth gently. “It’s carrot cake.  Your favorite.”

“Go away, Stiles,” Cora snapped, her eyes locked stubbornly on her laptop screen.

“I’m sorry I was such a jackass, okay? I’m just really stressed out right now, my grandfather…”

“What, is your grandfather Stalin?” Cora demanded, slamming the lid of her laptop shut and turning the full power of her glare directly on him. “He’s turning you into some mindless wannabe Jackson Whittemore clone and you’re just letting him!”

“It’s not like that…”

“It seems like it is to me!  Two weeks ago you never would have talked to me that way and all of a sudden…”

“Okay, you’re right about that,” Stiles sighed. “I shouldn’t have called you a heinous bitch, and I’m _sorry_.”

“You’re right, you shouldn’t have,” Cora sniffed.  She traced her finger along the faded black sharpie marks of ‘GREENBERG WUZ HERE’ scrawled across the table’s surface and refused to look up at him.

“I was a dick,” Stiles wheedled. “And I’m really sorry.  Just that, you were kind of making me feel like shit…”

“So you made me feel like shit back,” she said, her shoulders slumping just slightly. “I’m sorry, too, I guess.  Just sometimes…”

She trailed off then, grabbing the bright green cupcake box and dragging it towards her.  She’d gone quiet and a little melancholy, which was so unlike her that Stiles found himself actually worrying about it.

“Just sometimes what?” he pressed.

“Just sometimes I feel like I don’t really...belong.  I know I’m not your best friend, but you’re mine,” she told him quietly. “Other people don’t really like me.  They think I’m bossy and pushy, and I guess they’re right, but I never cared because I always thought you and me were pretty close…”

“Of course you’re my best friend,” Stiles told her, suddenly feeling like world’s biggest jackass.  He knew what it was like to feel alone and friendless.  He’d had quite a lot of that before he’d met Scott in second grade. “I mean, yeah, Scott’s my best friend, but he’s more like a brother.  And anyway, who said you can’t have more than one best friend?  You are totally best friend material, Cora Hale…”

“Then why are you hiding stuff from me?” Cora demanded, fixing him with a hard stare.  He wondered if he’d just been duped by the threat of female emotions, or if she really had found his words meaningful enough to get her regular attitude back. “Something weird is going on with your grandpa and you refuse to tell me about it.  Friends tell.”

“It...it’s kind of a huge secret,” Stiles admitted.  There was no way he was going to convince her that he wasn’t hiding something, so it was better not to try.  He’d just piss her off again, maybe even more than before.. “Like...super huge.  You’re going to think it’s stupid.”

“Try me,” she challenged, finally opening up the cupcake box and smiling down at the frosted snarling werewolf.

“Okay,” Stiles sighed. “But really Cora, this is huge, top secret.  You can’t tell anyone, even Derek.”

“Like I tell Derek anything,” she scoffed, and then upon seeing his face rolled her eyes and added, “I promise to keep your secret, Stilinski.”

He glanced around the courtyard, looking to see if there was anyone lurking within hearing distance, and then leaned towards her.  She raised her eyebrows and leaned forward as well, and Stiles started in a quiet voice,

“Okay, so have you heard about that European king that died last week?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tale about Stiles' ancestor, the first queen of Genovia, was actually taken from the books. I just thought it was super badass and wanted to include it.

_“Genovia was established as a sovereign state in 568 A.D., after the Visigothic warlord Albion murdered the ruling monarch of Italy and declared himself king.  As a victory prize, he chose to take the daughter of one of the old king’s generals, a woman by the name of Rosagunde, for his bride…”_

“Dude, are you doing homework?”

Stiles flailed with surprise at the suddenness of Scott’s voice coming from behind him, almost sliding sideways out of his chair before managing to catch himself on the edge of his desk.

“Jeez, Scotty, give a guy some warning,” he griped. “And yeah, kind of.”

“We take, like, all the same classes,” Scott said, his confusion slowly melting into horror. “Oh no, did we have homework over the break?”

For just a moment, Stiles considered giving his friend a false assignment, just to see if he would actually do it, but then he decided that he wasn’t quite that mean.  Homework over Thanksgiving break was rude and uncalled for, so of course Grandpère had decided that it was the perfect time for Stiles to write him an essay on the establishment of Genovia.

He’d spent the past three weeks at the consulate in Sacramento every day after school, getting his brain stuffed with everything from international relations to dinner etiquette, and he was pretty much constantly exhausted.  He’d leave school and go straight to prince lessons with Grandpère, and then come home and make dinner before going upstairs to do his actual homework.  He was dead on his feet, but he had to admit that he’d learned a lot.  Genovian history was actually pretty interesting, and he’d gotten into a serious Wikipedia spiral one night a few weeks ago that had led to him having a lot of random facts on hand.  Grandpère had never looked prouder of him than when he’d rattled off some random information about the Genovian olive crisis of 1742.

“It’s homework for Grandpère,” he said, grimacing. “A history paper.”

“Gross,” Scott said, wrinkling his nose. “Doesn’t he know it’s Thanksgiving?  You’re supposed to eat until you pass out, not do school work.”

“He thinks Thanksgiving is a ‘ridiculous American excuse to gorge oneself’ and gave me a whole lecture on superior Genovian holidays when I reminded him,” Stiles sighed. “But anyway, this one is kind of interesting.  It’s about my like, sixty-times-great grandmother Rosagunde, the first princess of Genovia.  She was forced to marry this warlord who had cut off her father’s head, and on their wedding night he made her drink wine from her father’s skull, so that night after he fell asleep she strangled him to death with her hair.  Pretty badass.”

“Yeah, that sounds pretty cool,” Scott admitted.

“Well, the new king of Italy thought so,” Stiles mused. “He gave her a country.”

“Seems like you’ve really gotten into this prince thing,” Scott said, throwing himself down on Stiles’ bed. “Like three weeks ago you wanted nothing to do with it, and now you’re all into the history and proud of your ancestors and whatever.”

Stiles shrugged uncomfortably.  Part of him had kind of forgotten that these prince lessons were because he was supposed to _be_ a prince.  He’d always liked learning things, and he’d let himself get swept away into all the new information and forgotten what it actually _meant_.

“Well, I mean…” he said slowly. “It’s interesting and stuff, but I’m really not cut out to rule a country. I’m still gonna abdicate at the ball.  Oh, by the way, I’ve got an invitation for you, and for your mom.  You can invite anyone you want as a date.”

He dug two cream-colored envelopes out of his desk.  They were made of thick parchment instead of regular paper, and they were sealed with actual purple wax, pressed with a seal in the shape of the crest of the Genovian Royal Family.  They were both a little less pristine than they had been when Grandpère had (grudgingly) given them to him, but they had spent almost a week in his backpack, so that was to be expected.

“I think you’d make a really good prince,” Scott told him loyally.

“Thanks for saying it, bro.”

“No I’m serious,” Scott insisted. “You’re smart, Stiles.  You always come up with the best plans and you can talk circles around pretty much anybody…”

“Well, yeah,” Stiles said, never one to be particularly modest. “But all that does not a ruler make.  Believe me, it’s better if I don’t even pretend I could be a monarch.  For me and for Genovia.”

“If you say so,” Scott said doubtfully.  He stood up and stuffed the invitations in his the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie. “Anyway, you want to hang out today?  I’m super bored and mom was starting to suggest that I could clean the fridge out and stuff, so I got out of there quick.”

“Wise,” Stiles praised. “What did you have in mind?”

Just then his phone chimed with a text from Cora.  He glanced at it while Scott tried to decide if he’d rather play Call of Duty or marathon _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ on Netflix.

_“Wanna see Mockingjay at 3?”_

After confirming with Scott, Stiles sent back an affirmative and almost immediately received another reply.

_“Awesome, pick us up in twenty.”_

“Sometimes I swear she only likes me for my car,” Stiles sighed.

“That’s the only reason I like you,” Scott told him, and Stiles flipped him off.

“Fuck you, you can walk.”

…

Derek and Cora were already on the front porch by the time Stiles pulled up, and as soon as he started around the curve of the driveway they were racing each other towards the car.  At one point Derek actually picked Cora up and tossed her behind him, but she retaliated by jumping on his back and dragging him down to the ground.

“They must be really excited about this movie,” Scott said, his eyebrows shooting up.

Stiles pulled to a stop and rolled down his window as they rolled around next to the driveway.  He looked down at them, bemused.  Cora had Derek pinned to the ground and was smushing his face against the grass while he flailed underneath her, trying to buck her off.

“I get shotgun!” she said. “Say it!”

“Get off me!” Derek snapped.

“Just because you have a gigantic cru-”

“CORA!”

“Uh, guys?” Stiles said, and they both paused their tussle, turning to look up at him. “Scott’s already in the front seat.”

“Oh,” Cora said simply, and then climbed off her brother like there was nothing strange about having an all-out death-match for the front seat.

“I’m so glad I don’t have any siblings,” Scott sighed, and Stiles nodded in agreement.

“Please, take mine,” Derek grumbled darkly, pushing himself up off the ground and glaring down at his grass-stained henley.

“Come on, Der-Bear, get a move on,” Cora trilled, and Derek slid grudgingly into the car. “And stop whining or I’ll tell all your basketball buddies that you got your ass beat by your little sister.”

“Please, he’d get street cred for having survived,” Stiles scoffed. “You could probably take down a bear.”

“Well I don’t know about that,” Cora said, though she looked inordinately pleased by it all the same.

“So, anyone else need Stiles’ Cab Service?” he asked as they pulled out of the Hale’s driveway and on to the long path that led through the preserve.

“Nope, just us,” Cora said.

“No Erica or Isaac or Boyd?” Stiles asked, surprised.  He wouldn’t have thought Derek’s idea of a good time would be hanging out with his sister and her friends.

“He means you’re a huge loser who needs friends his own age,” Cora told Derek in a conspiratory whisper.

“That is not what I mean!” Stiles squawked, whipping around to glare at her before he remembered he was driving and should probably be looking at the road.

“They’re all busy doing family stuff,” Derek explained, not sounding at all offended by Cora’s insinuations. “And anyway, Cora’s just threatened because I’m way cooler than she is and she’s worried I’m going to steal her only friends.”

“Shut up,” Cora snapped sullenly, her tone suggesting that maybe Derek had hit the nail straight on the head.

“Never!” Stiles gasped theatrically. “There is room for multiple Hales in our hearts, right Scotty?”

“Definitely,” Scott answered, nodding.

“So see?” Stiles said. “We’re all friends here!  Now no more sibling bickering or I’m going to make you guys buy all the movie snacks.  All of them.  And I could really go for a jumbo popcorn right about now.”

“And Snocaps,” Scott added.

“All the Snocaps!” Stiles agreed threateningly.

“Snocaps?” Cora demanded, making a grossed-out face. “Snocaps are awful!”

Stiles let out a dramatic gasp, holding his hand to his heart.  Scott looked equally as horrified by her words, though he wasn’t quite as much of a drama queen as Stiles was and just expressed it through looking utterly disappointed.

“Derek, tell your sister she’s wrong and that Snocaps are obviously the superior movie candy,” Stiles demanded, but Cora only snorted loudly.

“You’re fighting a losing battle there.  Derek has a love affair with Milk Duds.”

“Snocaps are fine,” Derek offered feebly, and Cora snorted even louder.

“Derek you once said that Milk Duds were the direct line to your heart.  I seem to recall you loudly proclaiming you’d be eternally devoted to someone if they just gave you some Milk Duds.”

“Oh my God, shut up,” Derek hissed, elbowing her sharply in the side as Scott and Stiles roared with laughter.

Cora squawked indignantly and elbowed him back, leading to another fight that had Stiles threatening to force-feed them Snocaps if they didn’t stop. They both fell silent for the rest of the trip to the theater, though Stiles was pretty sure he saw them elbow each other a few times in the rearview mirror.  

The theater was pretty much empty since it was three o’clock on a Wednesday, so they picked the seats directly in the middle of the theater.  Stiles forcibly separated Cora and Derek, putting both himself and Scott in between them.

“Just so you know,” Stiles warned as he wiggled around in his seat, trying to get comfortable. “I am a movie talker.”

“Oh god, really?” Derek groaned, which was absolutely not the proper response.  Stiles was a font of interesting information, _thank you_.

“Really.” Stiles propped his feet up on the seat in front of him, curling his knees almost up to his chest.  His legs really were a bit too long for it, but there was nothing like putting your feet up for a movie, so sacrifices had to be made. “Don’t worry, you’ll find that I make stunning commentary and thought-provoking asides.”

“You mean like that time we went and saw _the Dark Knight Rises_ and every time the screen went dark you did your best Batman voice and whispered ‘Justice’?” Scott asked.

“Exactly.”

“Oh god,” Derek groaned again.

“Listen, buddy, this is an empty theater.  You are totally welcome to sit anywhere, but if you’re sitting next to me you’re gonna get talked at,” Stiles said, staring at him pointedly.

After a long moment, Derek started to get up.

“Dude!” Stiles said quickly waving his hands frantically, feeling like a monster. “I was just kidding, you don’t have to go sit _alone_ …”

“I’m just going to the bathroom,” Derek said innocently, but Stiles could see the start of a smirk curling at the edge of his lips.

“You’re an asshole,” Stiles grumbled, realizing he’d been played, and Derek just shot him a grin as he scooted out of the aisle.

“Get me some popcorn!” Cora yelled after him. “Extra butter!  Derek!  Extra butter!”

He didn’t acknowledge her at all, and she glared at the wall he’d disappeared around, grumbling under her breath.

“He better bring me some popcorn.”

“So, what was up with the cage match earlier?” Stiles asked, leaning around Scott to look at her.  She was curled up in an impossibly tiny ball in her seat.  It looked dreadfully uncomfortable, but she didn’t seem to care.

“Oh, nothing,” Cora said in a sing-songy way that suggested it certainly was something. “Derek was just bitching about having long legs again and how he should get the front seat, which we all know is utter bullshit.  And I told him that you’re _my_ friend, so I totally had shotgun privileges, but he was being whiny, so…”

“So you literally started fighting each other on your front lawn?”

“Only the strong survive,” Cora intoned. The scary part was, Stiles couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. “Anyway, he has to prove he’s worthy, and what better way to do that then through fighting?  It’s a timeless ritual, Stiles.

“You’re an animal,” Stiles told her, not even bothering to ask what she was testing his worthiness for.  He was a hundred percent sure he just didn’t want to know.

“Well, we can’t all be royalty,” she shot back in an undertone, and Stiles scowled at her.

“I’m so glad you’re well-versed on the phrase _top secret_ …”

“Lording over everyone with your _divine right_ , no matter that power derives from a mandate of the masses…”

“Oh my god I hate you _so much_ …”

“Guys, the previews are starting,” Scott hushed them, focusing his attention on the screen.  Previews were arguably Scott’s favorite part of the going to the movies, and he hated to miss them.  Even Stiles knew better to hold his comments for the between moments where they showed the ratings screen.

Derek came back halfway through the first preview with a huge bucket of popcorn that he handed to his sister over Scott’s head.

“Extra butter?”

“Extra butter.”

“Guys, shh!”

Derek snorted and settled down in his seat before sliding his hand into his jacket pocket and pulling out a box of Snocaps.  He handed the candy to Stiles, who tried to show his complete and utter devotion with silent facial expressions. When Derek just looked confused, Stiles leaned over into his space and whispered,

“Ohmygod I love you! Thanks, dude!”

Derek cracked a tiny smile and ducked his head, and Stiles was struck suddenly with how nice he smelled.  Kind of like one of those Manly Candles For MenTM , all sandalwood and pine and something indiscernible that must have been a Hale smell because it made him think of Cora and hanging out at their house.

He jerked away suddenly, realizing that he was about ten seconds away from burying his face in Derek’s neck and being super creepy.  Derek looked at him, eyebrows perked in question, but Stiles just laughed him off and shook his head.

“Sorry, zoned out,” he muttered, not entirely sure he could explain what just happened.  He got distracted by the way his best friend’s brother _smelled_?  What the hell.

Derek didn’t look entirely convinced, but he turned his attention back to the movie screen anyway.  Stiles tried to follow his lead, but he found that he had trouble concentrating on Katniss Everdeen and her rebellion.

Good thing he’d read the books.

* * *

 

Stiles got no less than ten text messages from Scott before school the first morning after Thanksgiving break.

He stumbled out of bed and jumped in the shower before heading downstairs to get some breakfast.  An awkward silence hung in the air between him and his dad, one that had been there ever since Stiles had yelled about not knowing his mom.  They’d always had a hard time bringing her up, and now it was like there’d been a huge trench dug between them because of her memory, and neither of them were brave enough to try and cross it.  So instead, they only spoke to each other when they had to, awkwardly avoiding looking each other in the face across the kitchen table during meals.

He was grateful for the sudden manic pinging of his phone because it gave him something to focus on.  He blinked in surprise when he saw several messages from Scott and more appearing as he watched.  A lot of them were some amalgamation of letters and exclamation points, something to the effect of: “ASDKAHFKASDHFKAJ!!!!!!”

He must have heard something exciting at lacrosse practice and couldn’t wait the extra half hour before Stiles got to school to share the news.  Stiles had had to quit the team because of prince lessons, not that anyone but Scott had noticed.  He swiped his phone open and scrolled back up through the text log to start from the beginning.

_“Dude OMG!”_

_“Duuuuuuuude!”_

_“Did you hear???”_

_“Stiles!”_

_“Stiiiiiileeeeeees”_

_“Dude I’m just gonna tell you”_

_“Heard Danny talking about it in the locker room”_

_“Jackson and Lydia broke up!”_

_“Jackson’s being a huge douche”_

_“I heard that Lydia is rebounding HARD for a date to the winter formal”_

Stiles read through the texts, and then again, and then once more, just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.  Jackson and Lydia had been the power couple of the Class of 2017 since the eighth grade.  The idea that they’d actually broken up and that Stiles might have an actual, gleaming opportunity to get close to Lydia was almost making him hyperventilate.

 _“TELL ME EVERYTHING!”_ He texted back urgently.

 _“Super loud and public right in the middle of the Jamba Juice on 3rd st!”_ Scott responded. _“Jackson said Lydia was holding him back and that he could do better, Lydia said that it was too bad that Jackson’s tiny dick was 95% of his personality”_

Stiles snorted a laugh at that, proud of her for having such a quick and devastating response.

“You’re gonna be late for school, kid,” John spoke up gruffly.  Stiles flailed a bit, almost falling sideways out of his chair.  He’d forgotten his dad was even there, he’d been so quiet.

“Yeah, okay,” he said, just as awkwardly. “See ya.”

He grabbed his bag off the couch and headed for the front door, his nose glued to his phone as more texts came in from Scott.

 _“Apparently someone keyed Jackson’s Porsche again”_ the next message said, followed quickly by,

_“And slashed three of his tires”_

_“That girl is a genius and I love her,”_ Stiles texted back.

He got in the car and shoved his phone in his bag so that he wouldn’t be tempted to look at it when it went off again.  He turned on the car and started out of the driveway, groaning out loud when the morning DJ began to speak cheerfully.

“News from the tiny principality of Genovia today…”

He flipped the station quickly.  He’d thought that they’d been done talking about the death of his uncle in the US by now, though it was getting near the end of the mourning period, so maybe it was just a follow-up.

Cora and Derek were waiting on the porch when he pulled up and they both raced for the car the same way they had a few days before.  Derek made it to the car first, but Cora slipped under his arm as he was opening the door and slid into the front seat.  He scowled at her, and for a moment Stiles thought he might actually pick her up and throw her on the ground, but then he just slammed the door and got into the backseat.

“Okay, first, don’t slam her door like that,” Stiles scolded. “Roscoe’s a lady and she deserves to be treated as such. Second, if you guys can’t get over your weird shotgun rivalry, I’m gonna make you both sit in the back.”

They both muttered petulant-sounding “sorry”s and Stiles nodded in acknowledgement before starting the ride to school.

“So did you hear that Lydia and Jackson broke up?” he asked casually.

Cora snorted loudly and shot him a look that he didn’t quite understand. “Who cares?  What, you think she’s gonna just fall into your arms now?”

“She could!” Stiles insisted, offended.  Cora just snorted again.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Derek, tell her I could totally bag Lydia Martin,” Stiles said, glaring at him through the rear-view mirror.  Derek rolled his eyes and muttered something noncommittal under his breath.

“Don’t mind him,” Cora said, when Stiles shot her a questioning look.  She was glaring at him like he’d just kicked a dog. “He just got some bad news.  He’ll get over it.”

“You okay, man?” Stiles asked anyway, and Cora snorted loudly and looked out the window.

“Fine,” Derek grunted, obviously not fine.

“Maybe if he’d just man up and _grow a pair_ …”

“Shut up, Cora,” Derek growled, kicking the back of her seat.

“Derek, I swear to god if you do that again I will make you jump out while we’re still moving,” Stiles threatened. “My car is not your punching bag.”

“Sorry,” Derek offered again, sounding contrite.

His phone started going off again then, a long string of ding!s that almost melted into one.

“You’re popular,” Cora said, eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

“It’s Scott,” he explained. “He probably learned more about the Lydia and Jackson situation and is keeping me updated because he is a good bro.”

He wanted desperately to check his phone, but if there was one thing that growing up with a Sheriff had taught him, it was that he should always be focused one hundred percent on driving and nothing else.  He left his phone in his bag.

“Holy shit,” Cora said a few minutes later when they pulled up to the school.  There was a huge mob of reporters camped out by the front steps. “This town can’t be so tiny and boring that a high school break up is actually making the news, can it?”

“No way,” Stiles agreed. “It’s gotta be something else.”

“Maybe there’s a gas leak and we’ll get sent home today,” Derek said hopefully.

“God, I wish,” Cora groaned. “Let’s go find out!”

She trotted off ahead of them, head whipping around every which way like she expected to find Beyoncé in the middle of the crowd. They started across the parking lot and towards the mob of reporters, who were stopping any student they could and asking questions.  They were all so loud with their shouted questions that Stiles couldn’t really understand what they were saying.

“Hey,” Derek said suddenly as they approached. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Then ask, dude, I’m all ears,” Stiles said, grinning at him.  Derek smiled and ducked his head just slightly, his ears and cheeks a little pink in the crisp morning air.  Stiles was suddenly struck by how gorgeous he was, which was crazy because you’d have to be blind not to notice that all of the Hales were straight tens.  Something about it just seemed different all of a sudden.  He’d never really thought about Derek having a nice smile before.  He couldn’t fight down the little grin that sprang to his face at the sight of it, and he felt strangely giddy for no real reason.

“I was wondering if you’d want…”

“Uh, well, that’s Stiles Stilinski right there,” a familiar voice said, making Stiles snap his head around in a sudden moment of clarity and panic.

Surely enough, Danny Mahealani was standing a few feet away with a reporter, pointing directly at him.  Stiles’ swore that his heart stopped as the nearest reporters all swung around to look at him.  For a single moment, everything seemed to stand completely still.  Stiles was vaguely aware that Derek was still talking to him, but he didn’t hear a single word of it, because the only thing he could hear was the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears.  And then, the moment ended and the reporters surged forward with a cacophony of noise and bright camera flashes.  Several microphones were shoved in his face, but all he could do was stare when they started shouting questions at him.

“Prince Stiles! Prince Stiles over here!

“Who are you friends?”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Prince Stiles!”

“How do you feel knowing that you’ll be required to rule a country?”

“Prince Stiles who’s your favorite actor?”

“Do you play any sports?”

Stiles could feel his lungs shriveling up inside him, his pulse skyrocketing.  His vision swam just slightly on the sides, and he knew he was headed for a full-blown panic attack.  He was practically blinded from all the flashes going off in his face, and it was all he could do to stumble backwards and wonder who had outed him.

“I didn’t tell anyone! I swear Stiles, I didn’t tell!” Cora was saying urgently, and he could hear Derek, sounding very far away demanding, “Why are they calling him ‘prince’?”

Suddenly, Scott was there, and Coach Finstock, pushing through the crowd and getting their arms around Stiles.  Someone grabbed his head and forced his face down, and then they were pushing through the crowd at a quick pace, their arms blocking Stiles’ head and their bodies acting like as shields.

Finstock was yelling, “Okay, the prince needs to go to school now MOVE IT YOU VULTURES!” and Scott kept muttering something to him quietly, but Stiles couldn’t quite figure out what it was.  He barely felt like he could move of his own volition, and even once they were out of the school and away from the press of bodies, his legs wobbled underneath him and he had trouble getting air into his lungs.  Scott supported most of his weight, even gasping from his own asthma, and practically carried him to the principal’s office.

“Oh my god,” Stiles gasped when the door was shut firmly behind him and the blinds were close to block the curious stares of the admin staff. “Oh my god.”

“Come on, Stiles, just breathe,” Scott was coaching, taking a puff on his inhaler.

For a moment, he looked like he was considering giving Stiles a puff too, but then he just shoved it back in his hoodie pocket and grabbed one of Stiles’ hands and held it to his chest, breathing in and out deeply so that Stiles could feel it.  After a few moments of trying to mimic the feeling with his own breathing, Stiles’ chest loosened up and his vision cleared and he found himself sweaty and cold, collapsing back into his chair.  Scott gave him a tiny smile and then unzipped his hoodie and draped it around him.

“Are you alright, Mr. Stilinski?” Principal Thomas asked, looking concerned.

“I’m fine,” Stiles said. “I just…I don’t know how they found out!”

“I didn’t tell,” Scott said quickly, his eyes wide.

“I know, buddy,” Stiles assured him.

“We’ve contacted your father,” Principal Thomas told him, settling behind his desk. “He should be here soon.  I’m going to have you stay here until then.  The press can’t come inside the school, but you understand that your presence right now is rather…disruptive.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said tiredly.  The last thing he wanted to do was go to class anyway, at least not until he felt like he’d gotten all his breath back.

“I tried to text you,” Scott told him. “to tell you they were here and looking for you, but you didn’t answer.”

“I was driving,” Stiles said dumbly, and Scott nodded.

Harris came through the door then, sneering at Stiles like he’d planned all of this just to ruin his day, and slapped a newspaper down on the desk.  On the front page, in huge headline letters, were the words, “Prince Stiles: Beacon Hills’ Own Royal!” above a particularly unflattering yearbook picture.

“Subtle,” he sneered, as if Stiles had written the article himself.

“I don’t know how this happened,” Stiles repeated numbly.

There came a knock at the door and then Ms. Morrell was poking her head in.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “But Cora Hale is here, she says she has Stiles’ backpack?”

He hadn’t even realized until right then that his bag was missing.  He must have dropped it when the flashes started going off in his face.  He was glad that she’d grabbed it, and not one of the reporters.  Not that he had anything incriminating in there, but still.  At least he knew Cora hadn’t gone digging through it to look for secrets.

“Thanks,” Stiles said numbly, accepting the bag from her.

“Are you okay?” she asked, being a lot gentler than he’d ever seen her before.

“I don’t know,” Stiles admitted.

“Your phone kept going off,” she said, handing to it. “I didn’t answer it, but your grandfather has called four times.”

“Fuck,” Stiles said, and no one admonished him for his language.  They probably figured he deserved an f-bomb or two.  “I better call him back.”

“Thank you, Miss Hale,” Mr. Thomas said. “You should get to class.  You too, Mr. McCall.”

Scott looked doubtfully at Stiles for a moment, and he just shrugged.

“I’ll be okay,” he said. “Go ahead.”

They both left the office together, and Stiles decided to just get it over with.  He pressed down on the most recent contact and rang straight through to Grandpére’s personal line.

“Maczysz, what is the meaning of this?” Grandpére demanded, sounding even harsher because he now refused to speak to Stiles in any language but French, ever since he’d taken the crash course and fallen back into like he’d never stopped.

“I don’t know, Grandpére!” Stiles insisted, also in French. “I didn’t tell anyone except Scott and Cora…”

“And I suppose they went running to the media the first moment they could…”

“They didn’t tell anyone either!” Stiles insisted.

“And you know this to be fact?” he demanded skeptically.

“Yeah, I do!” Stiles insisted, feeling particularly protective of his friends.

“Very well.  I’m having the security team look into it.  I will be at your school in less than twenty minutes.”

“What, why?”  The idea of Grandpère in a public high school was almost laughable.  Picturing him shuddering in horror at the industrial carpeting did make Stiles feel a little better.

“Damage control, my boy.  It’s all just another mess that needs to be cleaned up.   _Do not_ speak to the press, do you hear me?”

“Oh believe me, I won’t,” Stiles retorted.

“Good.  We’ll set up a one-on-one interview…”

“An interview?” Stiles demanded, aghast.  Two seconds ago it was ‘don’t speak to the press’ and now they were talking interviews?  What even was his life?

“Cat’s out of the bag now, Maczysz, there’s no going back.  We have to start framing your public image.  But not until I say so.  So stay away from the press, and be very careful what you tell any of the little urchins at that hovel you call a place of education.  Any one of them would sell you out for fifteen minutes of fame.”

“Okay, Grandpére,” Stiles sighed. “I’m in the principal’s office. And watch out for the press.”

“Lars won’t allow anyone to get too close to me,” Grandpére assured him, and Stiles believed him.  Lars, Grandpére’s bodyguard, was a six-foot-four wall of muscle with a Glock and more knives than any one person should ever really have.

Grandpére hung up without a goodbye, and Stiles sighed and lowered his phone.  He stared at it for a moment, noting that he also had a missed call from his dad.  He was just considering calling back when the door burst open and the man himself rushed through.  He was dressed in uniform, as was to be expected, but Stiles suspected that it had probably drawn more attention to him than he’d planned on.  If they knew who Stiles was, they definitely knew his dad was the Sheriff, and he’d probably been mobbed on his way in.

“You okay, kid?” he asked, a little breathless as he collapsed into the chair next to him.

“As I can be, I guess,” Stiles asked. “It was kind of…overwhelming.”

“And that’s exactly why we never told you,” he said, but then left it at that.  Clearly he wasn’t comfortable having a heart-to-heart in front of Principal Thomas and Harris and Finstock, and Stiles was pretty glad for it, even if it was kind of an ‘I told you so’.

“Grandpére’s on his way,” Stiles said, and John scowled, his face going dark.

“I don’t know what game he’s playing, leaking this to the press.  We had an agreement…”

“I don’t think it was him,” Stiles said quickly. “He seemed pretty pissed off.  I think he’s just as surprised as we are.”

“Yeah, maybe.”  He didn’t sound convinced.

“Really, Dad,” Stiles insisted, surprised as anyone that he was defending Grandpére. “You know he thinks I’m a disgrace to the Renaldo name.  He definitely didn’t want me doing public functions before the Ball.”

“So, what,” Finstock butted in, his arms crossed and a suspicious look on his face. “This isn’t all some elaborate prank?  You’re really a prince, Stilinski?”

It was the first time that he’d ever gotten Stiles’ name right.

“Yeah, it’s true,” Stiles sighed, because there was no point in lying.

“If you’re a prince, then what the hell are you doing here?”

“Bobby,” Mr. Thomas interrupted, saving Stiles from having to answer a question he wasn’t sure he knew the answer to, “Don’t you have a class right now?  You too, Adrian.”

Finstock made finger guns at him and bustled out of the room, but Harris hesitated for a moment, a pissy expression on his face because he’d just been dismissed.  He opened his mouth to say something, but Mr. Thomas just perked his eyebrows at him in question and he snapped it shut again.  He cast a dark look at all of them and then left, muttering under his breath all the while.

“He’s a piece of work,” John muttered, and Stiles nodded in agreement.

“Sheriff, I think we have a real problem here…” Mr. Thomas started, but the door to his office opened once more, interrupting him.

This time, Grandpère swept in, looking decidedly royal in his expensive three-piece suit with a bodyguard flanking him on either side.  One, of course, was Lars, looking like a less-green version of the Incredible Hulk in the tiny office.  The other, Stiles had never seen before.

He had brown hair and a goatee that were starting to get salt-and-pepper in small patches, and lines on his face that should have made him look old, but really just kind of made him look world-weary and tough.  He didn’t really look like a bodyguard.  For one, he was substantially smaller than Lars, and shorter than Stiles even.  Secondly, he wasn’t wearing Lars’ assassin chic of black suit on black shirt and tie.  Instead, he was in a pair of comfortable looking jeans and brown work boots, paired with a gray V-neck t-shirt and a drab green cargo jacket.  He kind of looked just like a normal guy you’d run into on the street, but something about his pale blue eyes screamed of danger in a way that Lars didn’t, and Stiles felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise up when they caught each other’s eyes.

“Maczysz,” Grandpère said, taking the floor as if there hadn’t been anything going on before he’d entered, or at least not anything more important than him. “We have traced the source of the leak back to Paolo.”

“Paolo?” Stiles asked. “The guy who cut my hair?”

“It seems he received quite the sum _The Sacramento Bee_ for information about the state of Genovia’s affairs, and he chose to provide them with the biggest secret he had.  Completely violated the non-disclosure agreement, of course, and you can guarantee that we’ll be taking him to court for damages.  It’s such a shame, he did such good work.”

“Excuse me,” Mr. Thomas spoke up. “You’ll have to forgive me, but my French is a little rusty.  If we could have this conversation in English, please?”

“Very well,” Grandpère sighed, switching languages. “Vulgar language, English.”

“French isn’t even your first language, Grandpère,” Stiles reminded him.

“I suppose no one is going to offer me a seat?” Grandpère said, pointedly ignoring him. “Honestly, sitting in the presence of standing royalty…”

“Here, Grandpère, have my seat,” Stiles sighed, getting up.  Over the past month he’d learned that it was easier to just give the man what he wanted, within reason.  He was more manipulative and underhanded than Stiles could ever hope to be, so he had to pick his battles very carefully.

“Thank you, Maczysz,” Grandpère sniffed, settling delicately onto the straight-backed chair as if it were a throne.

“You’re welcome, Grandpère.”

“As I was saying,” Mr. Thomas interrupted, looking like he couldn’t decide whether to be amused or annoyed.  Stiles totally understood that, “we have a problem here.  I can keep the media out of the school itself, but technically it’s public property so there’s not much I can do about having them on campus.  It will be quite distracting for the kids until the media circus dies down…”

“So, what, you want to keep my kid out of school?” John demanded, looking furious. “He’s a sixteen year old boy, he has a right to be in school…”

“Though home schooling would be more appropriate for a prince,” Grandpère butted in. “I could have the best Genovian tutors here by Wednesday…”

“I am _not_ being homeschooled!” Stiles interjected quickly. “Like I’m not enough of a freak already.”

“Honestly, Maczysz…”

“It’s not just about the distraction,” Mr. Thomas continued, as if he hadn’t even noticed the little aside. “This is a public school, Sheriff, we’re definitely not equipped to deal with known royalty.  He might not be safe…”

“Oh well, that’s not a problem,” Grandpère said. “Of course, now that his status is known, Maczysz will have a bodyguard.  The boy needs protection.”

“What?” Stiles demanded. “A bodyguard? Are you crazy?”

“I’d be crazy to let you go without one,” Grandpère sniffed. “Your anonymity protected you before, but now you must have a bodyguard with you at all times.  I’ve selected the very best of the Royal Genovian Guard, my boy.” He nodded at the scary serial-killer-vibe guy to his left.

“You’re joking,” Stiles said hoarsely.

“I don’t joke,” Grandpère said sternly, and wasn’t that the truth.

“Well,” Mr. Thomas said, seeming appeased by that. “I suppose we could make arrangements for a bodyguard to attend classes with Stiles, as long as it won’t interfere with the student’s concentration…”

“After the novelty wears off, they won’t even know I’m there,” the bodyguard promised, his voice deep and with a decidedly American accent.

“And I suppose you’ll be carrying weapons?” Mr. Thomas asked suspiciously.

“A standard sidearm,” the bodyguard confirmed, moving his jacket so that he could see the gun tucked into a holster under his arm. “Only to be used in the direst of situations, I assure you.”

“I’ll have to talk to the school board about that,” he said uncertainly. “But I’m sure exceptions can be made considering the circumstances…”

“Very well, he will leave the gun with Lars for today,” Grandpère said imperiously, and though the bodyguard didn’t look at all happy to hear that, he didn’t protest either. “As for the media storm, it can’t really be avoided, but it should die down quite a bit after Maczysz gives an interview.”

“An interview?” Stiles’ dad demanded, and then, “Today?  He’s not staying in school today, I’m taking him home!”

“Yes, John, an interview,” Grandpère said slowly, as if the sheriff were simple. “And you can’t take him home today.  It would be viewed as weakness, running away from adversity.  He must go to class and go about his life with a stiff upper lip as if nothing has happened.”

“Don’t you start telling me…”

“Dad,” Stiles interrupted. “It’s okay, I don’t mind staying today.  I mean, he’s kind of right.  If I hide, it’s just going to make it worse when I eventually have to come back.  At least if I let them get it all out now it’ll go back to normal in a few days.”

John paused, still looking ready to argue, and then deflated just slightly.  He looked Stiles full in the face, the same way he did when he suspected that Stiles had gotten up to something he shouldn’t have.  It was a squinty-eyed, searching look, and when Stiles was little he had been half-convinced that his dad could read his mind.

“You sure?” he asked, and Stiles nodded.

“Yeah, dad, I’ll be fine,” he promised. “I’ll have Scott and Cora, and a bodyguard apparently.”

His dad squinted at him for a moment longer and then sighed and nodded.

“All right kid,” he said. “But if you get overwhelmed, promise me you’ll call.  I’ll come get you right away.”

“I promise,” Stiles said.

His dad turned to the bodyguard then, sizing him up.  He must have been satisfied with whatever he saw, because finally he reached out a hand to shake.  The bodyguard responded with what looked like a strong grip.

“What’s your name?” John asked.

“Argent,” the bodyguard said. “Chris Argent.”

“Well, Chris Argent, I need you to understand something.  That boy is my only child.  Do you understand that?  He’s my _everything_ , and if something happens to him…”

“Nothing will happen to him,” Chris promised, and Stiles watched them, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and overwhelming guilt at the cold-shoulder he’d been giving his dad for nearly a month.

“My _only_ child,” the sheriff repeated, and Chris nodded.

“I understand,” he said. “I have a daughter his age.”

“Okay,” his dad said, seemingly convinced. “All right.  Thank you.”

“Dad,” Stiles said, and it came out more choked than he wanted it to.  Still, his emotions were too out of whack for him to suppress it, so instead he just crossed the room in three big strides and grabbed his dad up in a rough hug.

“We’ll talk later,” his dad promised, slapping him on the back a few times, and Stiles almost didn’t want to let go.

“So, we’re all settled then?” Mr. Thomas asked after they broke apart. He looked like he was done with the whole shit show and just ready to let them do whatever the hell they wanted to do.

“I believe so,” Grandpère said, standing up. “Maczysz, I’ll see you for lessons at three.”

“Okay, Grandpère,” Stiles said dutifully, watching as Argent handed his gun off reluctantly to Lars like it was the only thing he’d ever loved.  As soon as the gun was tucked away safely, Grandpère swept from the room, and his dad’s radio went off.

“Sheriff Stilinski, 10-19,” the dispatcher said, which Stiles knew meant they were requesting he return to the station.

“10-4,” he answered quickly, and then shrugged at Stiles.

“Duty calls, kid.”

“Yeah, I’ll see you later,” Stiles said, suddenly awkward again now that the moment of emotion had passed.

He left then without another word, leaving Stiles alone with his principal and his new bodyguard.

“Well,” Mr. Thomas said, rubbing at his temples. “I guess…get to class, Mr. Stilinski.  I’ll inform your teachers about your…guest.”

“Okay, thanks Mr. Thomas,” Stiles said, and beat a quick retreat.

Argent followed him silently into the hallway, walking a pace back to his right.

“So how does this work?” Stiles asked as he headed for AP English. “You like, follow me around and report everything I do to my grandfather?”

“In order for this to work, you need to trust me,” Argent said, not seeming offended by the question at all. “I’m not here to spy on you, I’m here to keep you safe.  If you want to skip class or do stupid teenager things, I don’t care, I just have to follow you around while you do them.”

“So if I decided to leave school right now and go to the mall you wouldn’t stop me or tell on me?” Stiles asked suspiciously.

“That’s not my job,” Argent said, shrugging. “I’m going to stop you from doing something that might get you hurt.  It’s my job to make sure that you’re safe.  But I understand that you’re a teenager and that teenagers don’t always follow the rules.  I’m not your parole officer.  Just pretend I’m not even here.”

“That seems kind of rude,” Stiles admitted, and Argent shrugged, like he didn’t care one way or another.

“So what do I call you?  Mr. Argent?  Bodyguard?”

“You can call me Chris, Your Highness.”

“Oh god please don’t call me that, especially not here.  It’ll just make them mock me even worse.  Call me Stiles.”

He made a noise, somewhere between clearing his throat and a hum, and Stiles wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but he was going to assume that it was agreement.

“Okay, good,” Stiles said. “Glad we’ve got this all cleared up.”

“Ecstatic,” Chris agreed dryly, and Stiles thought maybe he might like him, serial-killer vibes be damned.

* * *

 

The day was, as Stiles had expected, hell.

Everyone was staring at him and whispering about him behind his back, and some people were even being assholes straight to his face.  He skipped gym second period and hung out under the bleachers with Scott (Chris watching from far enough away to feel like he wasn’t hovering, but close enough to actually guard Stiles’ body)  because he was just not ready to face the locker room quite yet.

Harris had been a dick, as expected, making snide comments about their local celebrity the whole time.  Stiles was pretty sure he’d directly quoted Severus Snape once or twice.  Signora Garibaldi spent almost the entirety of fourth period making suggestive comments at Chris in Italian, and had gone beet red at the end of class when Chris had proceeded to shut her down in perfect Italian and Stiles had informed her that most Genovians spoke French, Italian, and English.

Finally, mercifully, it was lunch.  Stiles was waiting a hall away from the cafeteria, where he’d planned to meet Scott and Cora so they could sneak off campus and go to Bruchi’s, since Stiles wasn’t nearly brave enough for the cafeteria.  He was sending a text to his dad to let him know that everything was still all right when a shadow fell over him.  He looked up nervously, only relaxing when he saw that it was Derek Hale who had stopped to talk to him.

“Oh hey, Derek,” he said.

“You’re a _prince_?” Derek demanded incredulously, and Stiles winced.

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging. “It’s kind of a…family thing.”

“Royalty generally is,” Derek answered, and Stiles couldn’t figure out what his facial expression meant.  Maybe he was really mad, or maybe he was just surprised that his sister’s spastic friend had connections.  

Someone cleared their throat loudly from across the hall and they both looked over at Derek’s posse, leaning against the lockers a few feet down.  Erica made some vague hand gestures that apparently Derek understood because he rolled his eyes and waved her off.  She grinned wide and gave him a saucy wink, and he deliberately turned his back on her.

“Sorry, I didn’t come over here to talk to you about that.  You’re probably getting enough of it right now…”

“Yeah, I am.  But I promise you can ask later and I’ll tell you all about it,” Stiles said, and Derek nodded seriously.

“I actually wanted to…I don’t think you heard me earlier, what with all the reporters and everything.  So I, uh, wanted to ask you if you…”

“Stiles, right?” a voice interrupted, and he was pretty sure he had to be hallucinating, because when he turned to see who was talking, it was the one and only Lydia Martin.

She looked especially radiant today, in a short pink and blue dress with her red hair curled to perfection and pinned back against her head.  She was wearing killer heels as always, but even still the top of her head came up just barely past Stiles’ shoulder.

“Uh…” he said stupidly. “Yes.  Stiles.  I am…Stiles is me.  Hi.”

She stared at him for a moment, her perfectly lined eyes narrowed thoughtfully, her glossed lips pursed, and then continued.

“So I’m sure by now you’ve heard about my…situation.  The gossip mill at this school is incredible.”

“Actually,” Derek interjected. “We were having a conversation…”

“I’ll only be a moment,” Lydia said dismissively, her eyes flashing.  

“Your, uh…situation?” Stiles asked, shooting Derek a wide-eyed look, begging him to be cool and not interrupt while an actual goddess spoke to him.  Derek fell silent.

“I’m finding myself suddenly dateless for the Winter Formal,” she said, twirling a lock of hair around her finger and pouting prettily.

Stiles made an odd croaking noise that in no way could be construed as sexy, suave, or even vaguely human.  Lydia didn’t falter though, just continued to study him with her hyper-intelligent eyes, making Stiles feel hot all over.  He was pretty sure he was turning an awful, blotchy red, and he wished desperately that he had even an ounce of chill in his entire body.

“Stiles I wanted to…” Derek started again, sounding just slightly desperate, because he was a good bro and obviously realized that Stiles was floundering.  Somehow him talking helped kick Stiles into gear.

“That’s bad!” Stiles blurted out, feeling immediately stupid as he said it. “I mean…that you don’t have a date, that’s bad.  Because you deserve to have a date.  You’re beautiful and smart and like, perfect.  Anyone would want to go with you.  I’d pay actual money to go with you.”

Aaaaand that was the most horrendously desperate thing he’d ever said.

“Perfect!” she said, clasping her hands together in front of her and smiling at him as if he hadn’t just made a total fool of himself. “So you’ll pick me up at eight?”

“Uh,” Stiles said, not sure exactly what had just happened, but fairly positive that he had a date with Lydia Martin. “Yes. Okay.”

His confirmation was taken for granted, called out to her retreating back, her curls bouncing and skirt swishing as she stalked down the hallway like she owned it.

“Oh my god,” he said out loud, to no one in particular.

“You know she’s only asking you because you’re a prince right?” Derek said, his face cloudy. “She’s not actually interested in you.”

“Dude, harsh,” Stiles protested, and Derek immediately looked chagrined. “I mean, you’re right, but still.  I know she’s only asking me because she wants to get back at Jackson by taking a literal prince to the dance, but that’s okay.  Because this is my _chance_ , man.  This is my chance to let her get to know me and to start wooing her and ten years from now when we’re married and she’s taking over the world with her huge brain, she won’t even remember that it started with a rebound.”

Derek heaved a huge sigh and stared down at the toes of his shoes for a moment, his shoulders slumping.  Stiles was kind of touched by how much Derek seemed to care about his feelings.

“I get that you’re worried she’s gonna break my heart, man, but don’t worry.  Lydia Martin is going to fall in love with me and we’ll have perfect children,” Stiles told him cheerfully.

“Yeah,” Derek said, unenthusiastic.

“You’ll see,” Stiles assured him. “Anyway, didn’t you want to ask me something?”

“Never mind,” Derek said, waving him off. “It wasn’t important. I forgot what it was.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, aware that he was grinning like a lunatic and practically floating on air.  “Let me know if you remember.”

“Will do,” Derek promised before heading off down the hall to his friends.  They were all looking at him like he’d just had his puppy run over, and Stiles wondered if it had something to do with the bad news he’d gotten earlier.  He’d have to remember to ask about that.

“Hey,” Cora said, approaching from the other side. “What’s up with Derek?”

“You’ll never guess who just asked me to the Winter Formal!” Stiles gushed instead, because he didn’t know what was up with Derek and he was way to excited to not shout about his date from the mountain tops.

“Oh my god!” Cora said, looking inordinately pleased. “I can’t believe—“

“I know!” Stiles said excitedly.  “I was just standing here talking to Derek and she came up and just basically told me we were going together, it was so scary and also kind of hot…”

“Wait, who are we talking about?” Cora asked, her smile fading into a confused frown.

“Lydia Martin, of course!” Stiles told her. “Who else?”

“She just came up and asked you? And you said yes?  Right in front of Derek?”

“Yeah!” Stiles said excitedly. “He was totally cool about it, he’s like the best wingman.”

“Oh my god, Stiles, _really_?” she hissed, looking kind of pissed.

“Cora,” Stiles protested. “I know you don’t really like Lydia but she’s probably going to be my girlfriend, so you’re going to have to get over it…”

“God, you are such a jackass,” Cora told him.

“Are you actually mad at me right now?” Stiles demanded, bewildered. He knew she didn’t really like Lydia, but this seemed a little much.

“I’m not mad,” Cora sighed. “Just…frustrated.”

“Hey guys!” Scott said cheerfully, appearing from around the corner. “What’s up?”

“I’m going to the Winter Formal with Lydia Martin!” Stiles blurted excitedly, and Scott grinned.

“Dude!” he said, going for a high-five, which Stiles granted with relish.  Scott knew how to properly react to fantastic news.

“You’re both idiots,” Cora said flatly, turning and walking away from them.

“Hey, where are you going?” Scott called after her. “Bruchi’s!”

“I’ve got to talk to Derek about something.  Go on without me.”

“Your loss,” Stiles shrugged, and he and Scott headed off down the hall together.  As he laid out a word-for-word play-by-play of his conversation with Lydia, Chris snorted softly and said,

“You really are clueless.”

Stiles didn’t know what that was supposed to mean, so he just responded by sticking his tongue out and went back to describing the exact way that Lydia’s hair shined copper in the sunlight.  What did Chris know anyway?  He’d just got here.


	3. Chapter 3

Bruchi’s ended up being a no-go, because as soon as they stepped out the front doors of the school, the press was there, shouting questions and snapping flashes in their faces.  They’d retreated back inside quickly and, after trying unsuccessfully to convince Chris that Stiles would be totally fine for ten minutes while he went to get them food, they persuaded a couple of Sophomore girls to go out and get them something in exchange for some “royal selfies” for their Instagrams.

“I’m just saying,” Scott said as he picked the pickles off his burger with a grimace. “This prince thing is totally working out for you.  You’ve never been more popular.”

“I can’t go outside without getting mobbed and blinded,” Stiles retorted, popping the top bun off his burger and offering it towards Scott. “I’m not sure having the power to trade pictures for food is worth that.”

“It’s definitely worth it,” Scott disagreed, settling his unwanted pickles on Stiles’ sandwich and then taking a huge bite from his own. “Bruchi’s is the best, man.”

“We could have just gone on our own if not for the flying monkeys,” Stiles reminded him darkly, but Scott remained unconvinced.  He took another big bite of burger and chewed thoughtfully for a moment before he sat up straight with wide eyes.

“How are you even supposed to leave school?” Scott asked. “There’s no way you’ll get to your car.”

“I don’t know,” Stiles sighed, his anxiety ratcheting up again at the idea of having to face the mob of cameras again. “Maybe just duck and run?”

Chris snorted from behind them, brandishing a french fry in their direction when they turned to look at him.

“That is a terrible plan and we’re absolutely not doing that,” he told them sternly. “We’ve already got an extraction plan.”  He pointed to the little ear piece he was wearing that connected him to the rest of royal guard central.  Stiles had heard him talking quietly at it earlier, but he hadn’t realized that it had been more than idle bored chatter.

“Ooh,” Scott said, perking up. “‘Extraction’.  That sounds so cool.  Like we’re in a spy movie.”

“Yeah,” Stiles snapped, overwhelmed suddenly at how much Scott didn’t seem to _get it_ ,  “Except this my life now, Scott.  This isn’t some game that I can stop playing and go home and everything will be normal.  I’m gonna have to deal with this shit for a long time.  Forever, maybe!”

“Whoa,” Scott said, obviously surprised at the outburst.  He looked wounded at Stiles’ tone, like a puppy that had just been scolded for peeing on the carpet. “I guess I didn’t think of that.  Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said, deflating as quickly as the anger had come. “It’ll all be over in a few weeks.  Once I abdicate, people will lose interest.  I won’t be a prince, I’ll just be Stiles.  Right?”

“You’ll always be a Renaldo, Your Highness,” Chris said, even as Scott nodded earnestly.

“Dude, we’re going for comforting,” Scott hissed, and Stiles couldn’t help the smile that snuck over his face.

“And you’re supposed to call me Sti-”

“STILINSKI!”

It seemed that Jackson came out of nowhere, and Stiles barely had time to scramble to his feet before he was being slammed up against a wall, Jackson’s hand fisted in the collar of his shirt.

“What the fuck do you think you’re--”

As suddenly as he was there, he was gone again.  It took Stiles a moment to recover and figure out what had happened, but it all became pretty clear when he saw that Chris had Jackson pressed face-first up against the wall, holding his arm twisted back at a painful-looking angle.  Jackson was spitting like an angry cat.

“How dare you put your hands on me!  My father is a lawyer, he’ll take you for…”

“There was an attack on the prince,” Chris said pointedly into his little earpiece, his voice calm and totally unbothered by Jackson’s threats.

“An attack!” Jackson spluttered, his face gone white as a sheet. “I was just…”

“No need, the problem has been handled,” Chris said, letting Jackson go and stepping back out of his space, but not far enough that Jackson could make a run for it.

“You can’t just manhandle me like that,” Jackson spat, apparently having regained some of his arrogance now that he wasn’t being pressed against a wall. “I have rights--!”

“Are you aware that assaulting a dignitary is a felony?” Chris interrupted, cool as a cucumber.  

Stiles and Scott just watched, their mouths hanging open just a bit as Jackson shrank bank at the full assault of serial killer eyes.  He looked like he couldn’t decide whether to keep going with his bravado and hope that his dad could bail him out, or if he should just slink off with his tail between his legs.  

They had drawn a lot of attention by that point, anyone who had been within a fifty-foot radius of their lunch spot by the stairs gathering around to find out what was happening.  Jackson looked around at all of them watching with interest, and apparently decided that the former was a better option.

“Dignitary?” he scoffed. “Stilinski is anything but _dignified_ …”

“He is the only heir to the throne of Genovia,” Chris answered nonchalantly. “When you threaten him, you threaten an entire dynastic line.”

“Chris,” Stiles said quietly, because everyone was whispering and staring again.  Some people were even taking video on their phones. “Just forget about it.  He didn’t hurt me.”

“Do you want to press charges, Your Highness?”

He held back a groan at the title, because now he definitely looked a grade-A douche and there would be no coming back from it.

“No I don’t want to press charges!  Jackson’s a dick, that’s just the way it is.  Let him go.”

Chris backed up a few paces, letting Jackson slink away from the wall, his shoulders tense and his eyes burning with anger and embarrassment.  When he got far enough away from Chris that he apparently felt safe enough for more bravado, he turned and scowled at Stiles.

“I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing with my girl…”

“Last I heard, you guys broke up,” Stiles shot back. “Also I’m pretty sure if she ever heard you claiming her as property she’d make you wear your balls as a hat, so…”

He made an angry snarling noise and stepped towards Stiles, looking for a moment like he was going to make some sort of threat, but then Chris shifted in a decidedly purposeful manner and he changed his mind.

“Whatever,” he grumbled, turning and stalking off down the hall.

“Are you alright, Your Highness?” Chris asked, his eyes flicking over Stiles’ person like he was expecting some sort of horrendous wound to appear. “I’m sorry, I was sloppy.  I shouldn’t have let him even get close to you…”

“Oh my god, Chris, just call me Stiles!” he interrupted, knowing that his face was red with embarrassment.  

“Right,” Chris agreed in that way that Stiles was learning meant that there was no way in hell he was going to do as Stiles asked.  He kept staring until Stiles rolled his eyes.

“I’m fine, Chris.  I don’t blame you, he came out of nowhere.” He waved his hands around a little spastically, like maybe could push Chris’ apology out of the air and away from him. “Jackson is a dick and he liked to think he’s the top of the food chain around here.  A little pushing isn’t gonna kill me.”

“Even so,” Chris said tightly. “It won’t happen again, Your Highness.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” Stiles sighed, throwing his hands up in frustration and then trying to hide the wince when it jostled his sore back.  He was probably going to have a few big bruises from where he’d slammed into the wall, but he definitely wasn’t going to tell Chris that. “Can we just eat? The bell’s gonna ring soon.”

They settled back down to finish their food, and Stiles tried valiantly to ignore the way that people were watching them.  He’d always wanted to be noticed before, but now he found himself longing for the days when he and Scott could go a whole day without talking to anyone but each other.

It was certainly better than feeling like an animal at the zoo.

* * *

“Well,” Grandpère said later, raising his eyebrows at the group assembled in front of him in the foyer of the consulate later that afternoon. “I don’t recall your lessons being a group activity, Maczysz.”

“Maczysz?” Cora snorted behind him, and Stiles shot her a narrow-eyed look.

“Maczysz is a perfectly suitable name, young lady,” Grandpère told her icily. “He is my namesake, after all.”

Cora squeaked out something that sounded vaguely like an apology and sidled awkwardly behind Derek, who was trying and failing to hide a smirk.  It was the first time Stiles had seen him smile in hours, and he was glad that he seemed to be getting over his funk.

“Sorry, Grandpère,” Stiles sighed. “Just that, usually I give Derek and Cora a ride home from school.  Except, today, there were a ton of reporters around, so Chris had us wait at the back of the school while a car came around to pick us up, but I guess they’re smarter than we gave them credit for because they started following us not too long after and I didn’t want to lead them straight to the Hale house…”

“And we thought it might be nice to come see the Genovian Consulate and see what Stiles has been doing here,” Scott piped up, offering Grandpère a sunny, lopsided smile. “It’s nice, I really like the fountain on the front lawn. Your Majesty.”

Stiles winced at the incorrect title, but Grandpère only stared at Scott for a long moment before his lips quirked in the tiniest of smiles.  Stiles was pretty sure he’d never seen Grandpère smile before, and he was kind of surprised his face hadn’t cracked under the strain.

“The proper title is ‘Your Highness’,” he corrected. “And thank you.  I thought the fountain brought a certain sense of...regality to the consulate.  Of course Japan’s consulate has two fountains…”

“I’m sure yours is much better,” Scott assured him, and Grandpère smiled a little more.

“Right you are, my boy,” he said approvingly, and Stiles just stared.  He’d spent weeks with Grandpère and still they barely tolerated each other, but Scott waltzes in and charms him in a minute.  Typical.

“Close your mouth, Maczysz,” Grandpère snapped, turning on him with a scowl firmly in place. “I had planned on having you practice your diction, because god knows you babble like a buffoon at the best of times, but I suppose since you’ve brought your...friends, we can have a bit of fun instead.”

“Fun?” Stiles asked, surprised. He wasn’t used to expecting fun from his Prince lessons.  Maybe he should have been bringing friends along since the beginning.

“You’ll need to practice your dancing,” Grandpère said.  He started to walk, leading them away from the foyer and down one of the long halls that Stiles hadn’t been in before.  “And what better way to do so than with partners?  How is your waltz?”

Ugh.  He should have known that he and Grandpère would in no way have the same definition for the word “fun”.  Dancing, was, in fact, the opposite of fun.  Mostly because Stiles had the grace of a newborn giraffe on his best day.

“I don’t have a waltz,” he said incredulously. “I’m sixteen, where would I have learned to waltz?”

“A prince raised in the Genovian palace, as is proper, would have known how to waltz by the age of ten…”

They entered the huge, round ballroom at the center of the consulate.  The ceiling was a huge glass dome, lined by thick pillars that stretched to the star-patterned floor.  It was large and splendorous, just like everything else in the consulate, but Stiles refused to let himself be impressed.

“Well, as the prince that you _have_ , raised in Beacon Hills, I can tell you that I know how to do the Time Warp and a passable Dougie.”

“Oh my god, I’d pay to see that,” Cora insisted, looking utterly delighted at the idea.

“I can teach you how to Dougie,” Stiles told her seriously.

“T-t-teach me how to Dougie,” she shot back.

“What we will be learning today is a waltz and a foxtrot,” Grandpère said sharply. “Now, does anyone here know how to dance _properly_?”

He didn’t look at all surprised when none of them spoke up. He rolled his eyes heavenward dramatically, like a martyr asking for strength.  Stiles was pretty sure he’d missed his calling.  He’d fit right in on Broadway.

“Derek does,” Cora offered innocently into the looming silence of Grandpère’s eternal frustration, pointedly ignoring the furious look her brother shot her. “Mom made him go to a whole bunch of ballroom dancing classes with her when he backed her SUV over Dad’s foot when he was learning to drive…”

“Cora!” Derek hissed, his face gone red, but she didn’t seem at all remorseful about it.  Once more, Stiles was glad that he didn’t have any siblings.

“Very well, come here, young man,” Grandpère instructed, and Derek only hesitated for a second before going to stand in front of him.  His ears and the whole back of his neck were bright red, and Stiles was fighting not to cackle. He couldn’t stop the few muffled snickers that escaped as Grandpère grabbed Derek up in his arms and they moved through the steps of a waltz together.  At least he hadn’t pulled out his phone and made a video like Cora had.

“I’m glad that you find this so amusing, Maczysz,” Grandpère said when they finished they demonstration, fixing Stiles with a perfectly arched eyebrow. “It’s your turn now.  Come stand in front of Mr. Hale, please.”

Derek looked like he was praying for the floor to swallow him up, and Stiles made a face at him to get him to crack a smile.

“Now, obviously, you would normally be dancing with a woman, so you’ll be leading…”

“Uh, not necessarily,” Stiles protested. Sure, he was going to marry Lydia Martin, but he wasn’t going to let Grandpère get away with that heteronormative bullshit.  He could dance with a man if he damn well pleased.  Stiles stared at Grandpère defiantly, ready for an argument, but he just rolled his eyes and huffed.

“Very well, then you must learn to both lead and follow.  Now, _go stand in front of Mr. Hale_.”

Stiles, a little thrown off because he had expected nothing less than a sneering dismissal of his bisexuality rather than a casual acceptance, stumbled over to stand in front of Derek without another word.

“Now!” Grandpère said loudly, hitting the play button on an iPod docked into some speakers sitting on top of the piano. “When attending a royal ball, you must of course pay deference to your betters.”

Cora snorted loudly at that but Grandpère ignored her.

“Mr. Hale, you will bow at the waist as you approach to ask the Prince for a dance.  Maczysz, as prince, it is your responsibility and _hono_ _r_ to dance with anyone who might ask it of you.” He said “honor” rather threateningly, like if Stiles were to ever indicate that it weren’t, he would be throttled within an inch of his life. “When someone does offer you a dance, you are to incline your head, like so.  Mr. Hale, you will not offer your hand until he has done so.”

They both nodded and watched him as he demonstrated the bows and head dips, at least until he straightened up, glared at them, and then snapped, “Well, get to it, then!”

Derek executed a quick, awkward bow, almost throwing himself forward stiffly at Grandpère’s bark.  Stiles tipped his head forward just as awkwardly, his ears burning.

“Excellent,” Grandpère said, though his tone was less than impressed, “Now, Mr. Hale, offer your hand and take your positions.”

Stiles stepped forward and copied the way that Grandpère had demonstrated earlier, but apparently he did a bad job because Grandpère tsked at him.  He grabbed Stiles’ hand from where he’s set it on Derek’s shoulder and placed it instead on his bicep, which Stiles noticed was incredibly firm and felt very nice under his hand.  He just barely resisted the urge to squeeze it, catching the automatic clench of his fingers at the last second.

“For God’s sake, Mr. Hale,” Grandpère snapped, grabbing Derek’s hand from where it rested in the middle of Stiles’ back and yanking it up so that it was level with Stiles’ shoulder blade, “It’s a waltz, not a mating ritual.”

Derek’s whole face went bright red as Scott and Cora started cackling.  Stiles was torn between burying his head in the ground from embarrassment and fighting off a smile at Derek’s expense.  It wasn’t as if Derek’s hand had been anywhere near his ass, after all.

“Miss Hale, Mr. McCall, your turn,” Grandpère declared, which stopped their laughter in it’s tracks. “You two, hold that position.”

“It’s Ms. Hale,” Cora informed him coolly, because she thrived on being contrary, but she let him instruct her on how to stand.

Scott seemed to be vaguely horrified at the idea of putting his hands anywhere on Cora’s body.  He kept darting his eyes over to look at Derek worriedly, which sent Cora off on a rant about her back not being an inappropriate touching place and Derek not being her keeper.

“So,” Stiles said as Grandpère wrestled his friends forcibly into position, pointedly ignoring Cora’s lecture on feminism and Scott’s desperate, fumbling apologies.

“I can’t believe you’re scared of my mom when you have to deal with him every day,” Derek muttered, dipping his head as if he was afraid that Grandpère might read his lips from across the room and punish him for talking out of turn.

“Isn’t he pleasant?” Stiles commiserated, giving Derek a winning smile. “But he’s not so scary.  Just bossy and arrogant, mostly.  It’s kind of like dealing with Jackson Whittemore.”

“Jackson’s just a bully,” Derek protested. “He’s not intimidating…”

“It would behoove you two to pay attention,” Grandpère interrupted sharply, snapping his head around to glare at them.  Stiles half expected it to just keep going in a full-on _Exorcist_ rotation.  

They both flinched and ducked their heads like naughty school children, but when Grandpère turned his attention back to Scott and Cora, they shared a conspiratorial smile that spurred each other into mostly silent giggles.

Surprisingly enough, dancing lessons turned out to be just as fun as Grandpère had promised.

* * *

“Hey, kid, can I come in?”

Stiles turned away from his laptop to look at his dad, who was leaning against the doorframe, still dressed in his uniform and looking exhausted.  He’d just gotten home from what Stiles was sure was a super busy day of work with a ton of ridiculous phone calls, only to find that the news media was camped outside his house as well.

They’d been there since Stiles had gotten home from Prince lessons, even after they’d stopped to drop Derek, Cora, and Scott off at their respective homes.  Chris had had to hustle Stiles inside the same way that Scott and Finstock had done at school that morning, though the crowd wasn’t nearly as huge.  At some point, someone had dropped his Jeep off for him, but when Stiles had peeked out to see who was getting out of the car, the camera flashes had started again and he’d had to shut the curtain again or risk blindness.

“Yeah,” Stiles sighed, spinning around in his chair with a long, drawn out raspberry noise.

“I agree,” his dad said, in response to the noise. “They’re not gonna let up out there, are they?”

“Well, Grandpère is scheduling an interview for sometime this week,” Stiles said. “So maybe it’ll get better after that.”

The doubtful look on his dad’s face kind of confirmed Stiles’ feelings about the whole issue.  He was going to be stalked by the media for a few weeks.  At least until something bigger came up on the Beacon Hills press junket.  Which, considering how boring Beacon Hills was, might actually be a while.

“I just wanted to check in.  See how you're handling all this.  You've been kinda…”

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles said quickly, guilt dredging up in him again like a particularly persistent monster. “I'm sorry, I just…”

“No, I get it,” John said, just as fast and painfully awkward as Stiles. “You had a right to be pissed. But uh...what you said, about not knowing your mom?  I want you to know that's not true.”

“Kinda feels like it,” Stiles said, avoiding his dad’s eyes. He hated to bring up painful thoughts and feelings, but he didn't want to keep it to himself either.  He felt like he’d been carrying it around with him for the past few weeks, letting it tear him up, but there was nothing he could do about it.  They were long past any opportunity to connect.

“I know. But I promise you, your mother was more herself with us than she was anywhere else.  Also, I, uh, I brought you these. I thought they might help.”

He set two journals on the edge of Stiles’ desk. One was plain brown with a large silver clasp shaped like a crest holding it shut. The book was full to bursting with fine, golden-edged pages, but the edges were scuffed, the leather bent and worn smooth from use. The other one was also bound in leather, but it was colored bright purple and tied closed with a simple leather cord.  The pages had rough-cut edges, and it wasn't nearly as full as the first one.

Stiles picked up the brown one first, surprised at how heavy it was, and turned it over in his hands quizzically. He flipped it back over and tried the clasp, but it stayed stubbornly shut.

“It's locked,” he said.

“Try this.”

His dad offered him a necklace which consisted of a simple chain with a silver crown-shaped pendant hanging from it. His mother had worn it every day until she’d had to go into the hospital for good, and he hadn’t seen it since.  He’d assumed it had been buried with her, but apparently he had been wrong.  He looked with confusion at the necklace, and then at the diary, before he realized that the crest was actually that of the Genovian Royal Family, and that there was an empty indent at the top where the crown should have been.  

His fingers only shook a little bit as he pressed the crown pendant into place and the lock popped open.

“Dad, is this…?”

“Open it.”

Stiles flipped the heavy cover over and stared down at the embossed gold lettering on the inside of the cover through watery eyes.

_This Diary Belongs to:_

_H.R.H. Clarisse Claudia Grimaldi Renaldo_

_Princess of Genovia_

“She kept a diary pretty religiously,” John explained, shifting uncomfortably. “If there was anything in the world that could tell you more about her than me, it's those books.  I've had them in a safe deposit box. I couldn't look at them, but I couldn't get rid of them either.”

“You're giving them to me?” Stiles asked, trying to keep his voice steady and utterly failing.

“She would have wanted you to have them, especially if she could see how upset you’ve been. You deserve to know your mother,” he said. “I'm sorry that you ever felt like you didn't.”

“Thanks, Dad,” he said, scrambling up to grab him in a tight hug, pressing his cheek against the crisp material of his shirt for just a moment, like he had when he was little and his dad would carry him around the house to try and lull him to sleep.

“You're welcome,” he said, slapping Stiles a few times on the back before letting him go. “I'll just leave you to it, then, all right?”

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles agreed, flipping the book open, already distracted by thoughts of what he might find in there.  He was sat on his bed with the diary in his hands before his dad had even closed the door.

The first entry was written in messy, loopy French, dated July 12, 1997. His mother’s birthday.

_“My Dearest Claudia,_

_I wish you the happiest of birthdays, my darling sister. I hope that your eighteenth year will be as splendid and joy-filled as you are yourself.  I've given you this diary in hopes that you’ll record your adventures in America for posterity, so that one day you may look back and reflect upon the ways your journey will change you. I know that you will thrive and flourish across the ocean. You are outstanding, Dear Sister, and perhaps you will come to see so yourself before you return._

_I love you with all my heart, and I wish you the very best._

_Your loving brother,_

_Jean-Philippe_

Stiles ran his fingertips over the name, feeling the grooves in the thick, expensive paper from the force of the pen.  It was strange to think that it had been written by his own uncle, a man who had died less than two months ago, and yet he felt nothing upon seeing the name.  He’d never even met him, but still somehow he felt like he ought to feel more when reading the intimate words of a dead man.

The next page was covered from top to bottom in purple ink, in the form of incredibly familiar handwriting.  His mother had always written in perfect, precise cursive, with every curl and curve in it’s proper place.  It was the kind of cursive that old women who had been raised by nuns in orphanages used, and his mother had scrawled it out with nary a thought.  Just seeing it made Stiles’ eyes sting.  There was a boarding pass tucked between the pages like a bookmark, and Stiles moved it aside so that he could read the words.

_23 August 1997, Genovian Airlines Flight 62347, Somewhere Above the Atlantic Ocean_

_Dear Diary,_

_Today I begin my new life in America!  Well, to be more accurate, today I spend twelve hours on an airplane on my way to my new life in America.  I’ve never flown commercial before, and as it turns out it’s not quite as exciting as I had hoped.  Even though I’m flying First Class (I peeked back at the coach section-it’s far too cramped back there!) the flight attendants expect everyone to remain in their seats unless absolutely necessary.  On the Genovian Royal Aircraft, there’s a whole bed, and I could get up and walk around as I pleased.  Still, I think it’s better for me to arrive in America by a commercial plane.  I’m going there to get away from the royal treatment, after all.  I need to figure out who I am without a tiara hanging over my head._

_Father was apoplectic when he found out that Jean-Philippe had given me permission to come, sans bodyguard and via a commercial plane.  He said that I would be surely be killed or held for ransom at worst, and at best I would go wild without someone to control me and bring shame upon the Crown of Genovia.  Father has always tried to keep me under his thumb, but lately, the weight has never seemed heavier.  I think Jean-Philippe can see that it’s crushing me, and that is why he announced that I was leaving at Court, so that Father could not squash down my determination to go._

_They argued for hours about it, but in the end Jean-Philippe won, as he always has.  He’s father’s golden child, of course, and he always has been.  Crown Prince (though I suppose just Prince, now that he’s been coronated), engaged to a proper Princess, intelligent and suave and perfectly behaved his entire life through.  He never got scolded for riding a mattress down the stairs of the summer palace, unlike me. I love my brother, but it is quite difficult to live in his shadow._

_In America, no one will know who Princess Clarisse is.  I’ll just be Claudia Renaldo, an international student from a tiny country no one has heard of.  There will be no meeting with heads of charities or doing ceremonial whatevers.  No sitting for hours next to Jean-Philippe as he conducts business in the throne room and holds audiences with the people.  No regimented schedule for every second of every day, keeping me without a spare moment to myself until I am lying in bed, exhausted._

_I can eat ice cream for dinner, if I so wish.  I can go out dancing or even to a restaurant without a bodyguard shadowing my every move and an entourage that may as well put a huge sign that says “ROYAL!” on my back.  I can sleep until noon and flirt with boys and go to the beach, and no one will be able to tell me that I can’t._

_I’m really looking forward to it._

Stiles realized, after a drop of water hit the paper and made some of the ink smudge, that he was crying silently as he read it.  It was just so...ordinary.  A teenage girl, starting her life, moving to a new place to go to college.  She was young and naive and spoiled, convinced that her controlling father was the worst thing in the universe and that moving to a new place would make all of her troubles disappear.

But she was also his mom.  He hadn’t realized how much he’d forgotten about her until he was reading her words and it came pouring back.  The way she talked, precisely and with the slightest hint of an accent.  The smell of her rose perfume clung to the pages, and when he flipped them it wafted up into his nose.  How, when he was four, they’d liberated his mattress from his new “Big Boy Bed” and ridden it down the stairs like a sled.  His mom had smacked her forehead against the banister on the way down and had worn a large purple bruise like a badge of honor for two weeks.

When the tears stopped, he took a breath and turned to the next entry.

* * *

The next day found Stiles sitting nervously in the library at the Genovian Consulate, wrestled into a suit that Grandpère had practically assaulted him with as he came through the door for lessons.  It was a really nice suit, of course-a steel blue designer number with skinny slacks and a closely tailored jacket-but he felt so uncomfortable in it it may as well have been made of maggots.  He was sure that he must have tried it on during Grandpère’s What-Not-To-Wear makeover, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember it.

The white shirt he was wearing was a little too crisp, and the tie was a little too tight, but Grandpère snapped at him any time he inched his hands above chest level, so he had to sit there and squirm uncomfortably while the news crew set up cameras and lights for his interview.  He’d already been attacked with some make-up brushes and pomade, and someone had wired him up with a microphone as well, clipping it to the lapel of his jacket and then attaching the bulky black power pack to the back of his pants with nary a care about hands in awkward places.

“Prince Stiles, hi!” An oddly familiar woman greeted him with a smile and an outstretched hand.  He shook it and did his best to smile at her. “I'm Katelyn Randall, I'll be conducting your interview today. Your grandfather said it was your first televised appearance, so I thought I'd go over the process with you a bit before we begin.”

The name was familiar, and after a moment he realized that she was one of the anchors on a popular morning show in New York City. One of those people like Katie Couric, who everyone had heard of. She looked different in person, a little smaller, with less shiny hair.

“Now, of course, the first rule is that you shouldn't look directly at the cameras. I know they're big and intimidating, but just pretend they aren't there.”

Stiles looked towards the hulking machines doubtfully. How was he supposed to pretend they weren't there?  They'd be recording his every move, capturing any humiliation for posterity.

“I want you to think of it less as an interview and more like we’re having a conversation,” she told him brightly. “There are no right or wrong answers.”

He _knew_ that was untrue. Grandpère had provided him with actual notecards as he was leaving lessons the day before, instructing him to read and memorize them. Stiles had never actually gotten around to doing that, though. His mother’s diary had proved more interesting, and he hadn’t really thought Grandpère would manage to set up an interview with someone he deemed suitable for the very next day.  He was kind of regretting not even glancing at them, now.

“Just be yourself and try to keep the conversation going, all right? Nothing bores an audience like silence.”

“No worries there,” Stiles snorted. “Ask my dad, I haven't been silent a day in my life.”

“Excellent!” She said, and Stiles wondered if she was always on all the time. “Are you ready to begin?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” he said, wiggling in his chair to get more comfortable.

“Great!” She said, and then turned towards the camera with a nod.  There was a flurry of movement as people rushed around, shouting to each other and getting organized.  After a minute or so of the mad flurry, she put on a huge toothpaste-commercial smile.  Then the camera guy pointed at her and she started speaking.

“Good Morning, I'm Katelyn Randall and today I'm sitting here with Prince Maczysz of Genovia! Thank you for being here today, Your Highness!”

“Oh, uh, no problem,” Stiles stuttered, forcing himself not to look at the cameras, even though he could already see Grandpère covering his face in response to Stiles’ less than stellar greeting. “And you can just call me Stiles.”

“That’s quite an interesting name, “Stiles”,” she said, seemingly not at all fazed. “Where did that come from?

Ah, good, that was a question he could actually answer.

“It's a nickname I kinda gave myself when I was a kid,” he admitted, with a self-deprecating wince that had Katelyn smiling widely at him. “My first name is Polish and kind of impossible to pronounce at first sight, and my last name is Stilinski, which is equally Polish and equally intimidating if you've never heard it before. So when I was in elementary school and the teachers would call my name from the roster, a lot of the time I'd get ‘Sti-Stile-Stile-inski?’ And so Stiles was kinda born from that.”

He gave the whole explanation very quickly, in a kind of run-on babble, and he smiled weakly at the blown away expression on Katelyn’s face.

“Sorry, that was really fast,” he said.

“Don't worry, we can reshoot it if we have to,” she said with a reassuring smile. “You're doing just fine.”  She put her reporter face back on then and continued.

“So, Stiles, you're 16 years old, and you've lived your whole life in Beacon Hills, California. You didn't even know you were a prince until October. Why is that?”

“My parents decided that it was best, I guess,” he said, shifting uncomfortably, resisting the urge to tuck his legs underneath him.  Grandpère would definitely throttle him. “My dad is American and my mother wanted to stay in California.  I was third in line, anyway, and I'd become fourth after Fabian had a kid, so they assumed that I would never actually rule. They thought it was better to raise me here without telling me about it so I could have a normal childhood.”

“And did you have a normal childhood?” She asked.

“I mean, I guess so? My dad is the Sheriff of Beacon County, so I probably got away with less than other kids did. There's just something about every deputy in town knowing who you are that keeps you on your toes.”

“Sounds like you’re a bit of a troublemaker,” she said with a conspiratorial smile.  Stiles winced.  Now Grandpère and his dad were both going to be pissed at him.

“I’m really not,” he tried to protest, but she just winked exaggeratedly at him and nodded.

“Of course not,” she said dismissively. “Now, Stiles, let’s talk about your girlfriend!”

“Lydia’s not really my girlfriend,” he said quickly, hoping she wouldn’t disembowel him for letting anyone believe otherwise. “I mean, we are going to the winter dance together, but…”

“Is that her name, Lydia?” she said, steamrolling right over him.  He was starting to get a bit of a Rita Skeeter vibe, and he wondered if Grandpère had had any idea what he was getting them both into when he’d chosen her.  “Very classy, good for you!”

“Well, like I said, she’s not really…”

“And how does Lydia feel about her boyfriend being a prince?  She must be very excited.”

“Well, you’d have to ask her, I guess…”

“She didn’t seem particularly surprised to see the media presence in the scene at your school yesterday…”

“What?” Stiles interrupted suddenly. “Lydia wasn’t even there.”

For all he knew, she could have been.  Between all the people, the flashing lights, and the brimming panic attack, he probably wouldn’t have noticed her if she’d been doing a hula dance right in front of him.  But it made no sense for anyone to assume that she was his girlfriend just because they were in the same parking lot at the same time…

“We are talking about the same girl, aren’t we?” she asked with a confused frown, and then looked to the crew standing at the edge of the camera setup. “Can someone get me a picture?”

An tiny intern hurried forward with a clipboard and a few photographs that she gave to Katelyn before hurrying out of the shot again.

“Ah, yes, here we go,” she said, rifling through a few 8x10 shots before showing one to Stiles.  

It was not the best picture of him.  He looked like a deer caught in the headlights, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging slightly open, his neck wrenched back like the picture had been snapped as he was jerking away from the reporters.  Just behind him he could see Cora, glaring directly at the camera like she could set it on fire with her eyes, and a confused looking Derek ducking his head to talk to her, probably in the middle of demanding to know what was going on.

“Oh,” Stiles said. “That’s not Lydia, that’s Cora Hale.  She’s my best friend.  Well, one of my best friends.  Scott McCall is my other best friend, we’ve known each other since we were like two.  My mom used to babysit for his mom, it was like a whole daycare thing…”

“Is that Scott in the picture?” she asked, interrupting his babble with a quick and efficient swiftness he’d often experienced from his dad.

“Oh no, that’s just Cora’s brother Derek,” he said. “By the way, if you’re going to be showing these pictures can you not use this one?  It’s not super flattering.”

“Don’t you worry,” she assured him. “We’ll be nice.  Now that we’ve gotten that little case of mistaken identity cleared up, why don’t you tell me how your friends reacted when they found out you are a prince.  They had to freak out about it, right?”

Stiles shrugged, smiling a little when he thought about his friends.  Just thinking about the way Cora would roll her eyes if she knew what he was doing right now helped him calm down a bit.  Sure it was going to be a nationally televised interview, but Cora would think it was the dumbest thing on the planet, and that made it less threatening.

“Cora mostly just makes fun of me and quotes liberal philosophers at me a lot.  She bought me a book of John Locke’s writings a few weeks ago,” he admitted. Katelyn smirked at that, and Stiles saw Grandpère facepalm from across the room, which probably meant that he wasn’t supposed to mention the idea that other forms of government could be better than Genovia’s.  Whatever.  Stiles was a patriot.

“But she’s been really cool about it,” he added quickly. “Scott didn’t believe me at first, but he’s been really supportive too.  He kinda helps talk me down when I freak out, and sometimes he even tries to convince me that I shouldn’t abdicate…”

Grandpère made a strangled noise, and the whole room went utterly silent for a long moment, long enough for Stiles to realize that he probably shouldn’t have said that.

“Are you going to abdicate?” Katelyn asked, almost breathless with giddiness at the idea of getting such a scoop.

“Oh, well, um,” Stiles said, unsure of how to continue.  He couldn’t _not_ answer, but he was pretty sure Grandpère would strangle him in front of everyone if he gave a definitive yes, and he couldn’t say he wasn’t going to, because that just wasn’t true.

“I’m considering my options,” he decided on, after a moment’s thought.  It was an answer, but a vague one.  It would have to do, though, because it was the only answer he could give her.

“He will, of course, be announcing his intentions once and for all at the Genovian Independence Day Ball on December 18th,” Grandpère spoke up loudly, and Stiles resisted the urge to shoot him a glare.  He supposed he deserved that his deadline be carved into stone, after the media storm he was sure to create with his little slip up.

“Well, that’s hardly two weeks away!” she said, and Stiles just tried to smile and not look too much like he hated his life.  He had the rest of an interview to get through, after all.

* * *

_25 August, 1997, Sacramento State, Sierra Hall_

_I explored Sacramento today.  Everything in America is so large.  Even the shops are huge, full to bursting with more food than I’ve ever seen at one time, even during the grand feasts that father always throws for our birthdays and holidays.  In one of the grocery shops, there was one aisle that was filled only with different kinds of chips.  It was overwhelming._

_Mostly, I just walked around wherever my feet took me.  It was exhilarating to be out on my own, with no one looking at me twice.  Just another face in the crowd.  On my walk, I happened upon the Genovian Consulate.  I knew it was there, as Jean-Philippe insisted that I attend school somewhere near to it or the Embassy, just in case I ran into trouble and needed help, or even if I just got homesick.  I wasn’t even tempted to stop and look for something familiar there.  I suppose, that it will be helpful if I ever need it, but if I have my way I’ll never step a foot inside._

_I’ve yet to have made any friends, but then, my roommate has not arrived, either.  The room I’m in is quite small, even by non-palace standards, and I can’t imagine how squashed I’ll feel once there are two people living in it.  The Resident Assistant has assured me that it is a standard dormitory size, and that most American universities require people to share rooms.  I’ve never shared a room in my life.  It will certainly be an adventure, I suppose.  I hope that my roommate and I will become lifelong friends, as books and movies seem to suggest is usually the case.  Even if we aren’t, Father has always said that I chatter incessantly and am far too forward, but somehow I think those characteristics will turn out to be more favorable for me here in America._

_This place is so different than what I’m used to.  Life here is opposite of everything I ever thought would be possible for me.  It’s kind of terrifying, but I think it’s also the best thing I’ve ever done._

* * *

The interview aired Friday morning, and it was even worse than Stiles had thought.  Sure, he looked good.  He was dressed the part, made up within an inch of his life, and had all the right lighting, after all.  It made him look much more attractive than he did when left to his own devices, if nothing else.

The suave image was utterly destroyed the moment he opened his mouth, though.

“Is that really what I sound like?” he asked, aghast as he watched himself babble on about everything under the sun. “I’m like the thing that wouldn’t shut up.”

“Now you understand my pain,” his dad said solemnly over the rim of his coffee mug. “Sixteen years of that.”

“I haven’t known how to talk my whole life,” Stiles protested, but his dad just snorted.

“Even when you didn’t know any words, you always babbled,” he insisted.

Mercifully, before TV Stiles could do anything more embarrassing, Chris let himself in the door and gestured for him to hurry along.  Stiles heaved a sigh and grabbed a toaster waffle and his bag.  He was sure school was going to suck if even one person had caught the interview.

The media presence outside the house had lessened somewhat since word had gotten out that the very first interview had already been conducted, but there was still a small group waiting around to snap pictures every time Stiles moved.  He just tried to ignore it as best he could, hiding behind Chris as much as possible.

They were silent all the way to the Hale house.  Even the radio was turned off, for fear of one of the DJs talking about Stiles’ horrendous interview.  He had no doubt that people would be mentioning it to him all day at school, but the more he could pretend it hadn’t happened, the better.  He was still surprised that anyone even cared what he had to say at all.

There was already a car pulling out of the Hales’ driveway by the time they pulled into it.  It was an old Toyota Corolla, absolutely dwarfed by the huge, luxury SUV that was Stiles’ new mode of transportation.  He’d tried to convince Chris and Grandpère to let him continue driving his Jeep, but they’d both scoffed and pointed out that it was a death trap even if they could somehow add all the safety features that the SUV came equipped with.  Stiles thought the tinted bulletproof windows were a little much, to be honest, but he was rather fond of the mini bar filled with soda and the candy in the pull-down compartment in the back seat.  Still, he was loyal to Roscoe and refused to be seduced by easy-access Toblerones.

The car peeled quickly out of the driveway like it was a getaway vehicle, and a moment later Cora came out of the house with her wolf backpack clutched in her arms like a teddy bear.  She looked tired and irritable, and Stiles was hesitant to say anything that might set her off, so he didn’t mention it.

“Hey, where’s Derek?” he asked, and her face got even cloudier, which wasn’t even fair, because he was _trying_.

“He got a ride with Erica,” she said.

“Okay,” Stiles said, a little surprised. “He knows I really don’t mind giving him a ride, too, right?”

Cora made a noncommittal noise and then asked, “Did Lydia approve of your suit?”

Stiles looked at her suspiciously for a moment, because Cora had made it very clear that she didn’t care a single bit about Stiles’ date with Lydia.  He couldn’t figure out anything that she might be trying to hide, though, so he let her change the subject.

“Yeah, she came to the Consulate with me yesterday and said it would match her dress just fine.  Grandpère was kind of a dick to her, though.”

“Oh yeah?” Cora asked, leaning forward with interest. “Why?”

“Well, according to him, she’s a ‘perfectly polite young woman with fine breeding’ but she’s only a commoner, which means she’s not good enough.  Apparently, as the Hereditary Prince, I should only be dating other royals or, at the very least, nobles.  You know, someone who can create well-bred Renaldo heirs.  It’s bad enough my father is a commoner, you know.”

“Well-bred,” Cora snorted. “More like inbred.”

“I know!” Stiles exclaimed. “Grandpère keeps making hints about “matching” with Princess Gabriella of Monaco who is, a, an infant, and b, my cousin.  It’s so freaking weird.”

“The Renaldos and the Grimaldis have often made marriage matches,” Chris pointed out.

“Which is exactly my point,” Stiles told him. “Literally one of my names is Grimaldi, I am not marrying-or even dating-anyone from House Grimaldi.  Grandpère is going to have to deal.”

“It’s your choice, Your Highness.”

“Damn right,” Stiles agreed. “Besides, Lydia’s head was made for a tiara.”

Cora snorted again, but Stiles ignored her.  He was in too good of a mood for her surliness anyway.

“Oh by the way, I finally got Grandpère to cough up two more invitations to the ball,” he said, digging them out of his bag. “For you and Derek.  I had to tell him that I wasn’t going to show up at all if he didn’t let me invite whoever I wanted, but I got them.  Here.”

“You should give it to Derek yourself,” she said, taking one of the envelopes and sliding it into her bag.  She didn’t really look at him as she did it, which was weird.  Then again, she’d been kind of weird the whole ride.

“Okay,” Stiles said slowly, confused. “Why?”

“Just do it, Stiles,” she snapped.

“Jeez, fine.  You’re weird, you know that?”

Cora didn’t bother to respond, suddenly moody again, so Stiles just rolled his eyes.  She was impossible to keep up with.

…

It was lunch before Stiles managed to catch sight of Derek, and even then it was only by chance that he happened to be coming out of the bathroom at the same time that Stiles was passing it.  It was a little unusual, since they tended to at least pass each other in the halls between classes a few times a day, but Stiles didn’t put much stock into it, figuring they’d just kept missing each other.  That assumption turned out to be a mistake.

“Hey, Derek!” he called, and Derek’s shoulders hunched as he drew to a stop and turned to look back at him, his face set firmly in a scowl. “Man I’ve been looking for you all day…”

“Why?”

His tone was snappish and sullen, and Stiles stopped abruptly, his smile slipping a bit.  He’d never heard Derek sound so mad before, and he was staring at Stiles with a harsh glare, his shoulders tight and his fists clenched at his sides.

“What?” he asked, confused.

“Why have you been looking for me?  Why do you care where I am?”

“I…” Stiles paused, searching for some hint on Derek’s face that this was some weird joke. He didn’t find one. “I wanted to give you an invitation to the ball.  I told you that I was trying to get them, remember?”

“I don’t need it,” Derek said shortly, ignoring the envelope that Stiles was holding out to him.

“Okay, what the hell is your problem?” Stiles demanded, crossing his arms, crumpling the heavy paper of the envelope with his movements. “I haven’t done anything to you…”

“I don’t have a problem, Stiles,” Derek snapped. “I just don’t know what you want from me.  It’s not like we’re friends.”

“What are you even _talking_ about?”  The words hurt, because Stiles had kinda thought they were friends.  He’d known, obviously, that he was closer with Cora and that Derek probably mostly thought of him as his sister’s friend, but he’d thought that they were friends, too.  Maybe not ride-or-die besties, but friends at least.

“I’m just Cora’s brother,” he said. “You made that pretty clear.”

For a moment, Stiles was utterly confused, and then he remembered his fumbled answer during the interview, when Katelyn had asked whether it was Scott in the picture.  He hadn’t meant it like that, and he supposed that the ‘just’ had probably been unnecessary, but still...

“You’re seriously mad because of something I said during an interview?” Stiles demanded incredulously. “I’m sorry if it hurt your feelings, but you’ll notice I said a lot of stupid shit and I didn’t…”

“I’m mad because I’ve been so fucking stupid this whole time,” Derek growled, crossing his arms over his chest.  It might have seemed threatening to some, but to Stiles it seemed more like Derek was curling in on himself protectively.  It was a huge contrast to the anger blazing on his face.

“I’ve been following you around like a stupid puppy all year, hoping that maybe you might actually notice how I feel about you.  That you might see me, but instead I get treated to An Ode to Lydia Martin for months.  And I was fine with that, because even if we were just friends and nothing more, at least I got to be around you.  I was okay with knowing that you cared about me even in a small way, but now it’s really clear to me that I’ve just been fooling myself this whole time.  We aren’t even friends, we aren’t anything.”

“Derek, we are friends!” Stiles insisted, reeling at the idea that Derek had been hanging around because he _liked Stiles_.  Unobtainable, leather-wearing, gorgeous Derek Hale.  Liked _Stiles_.  That made absolutely no sense.  “I’m sorry that I said you were just Cora’s brother, I didn’t mean it like that.  And I really didn’t know that you had a crush on me!  I wouldn’t have…”

“Forget it, Stiles,” Derek said sharply. “It’s good to know where I stand.”

He turned away then, marching quickly down the hall with such a thundercloud over his head that other students practically leapt out of his path.

“Derek!” Stiles yelled after him, hating the way his voice cracked a little bit. “Derek!”

“Come on Stiles,” Scott hissed, grabbing his arm.  Stiles had forgotten that he was even there, that they’d been blissfully unaware and headed towards the cafeteria just a few minutes ago. “People are staring, come on.”

No one tried to stop them as they made their way up to the second floor staircase that led to the roof, but that might have been because Chris glared at anyone that got too close.  It was almost like parting the red sea, the way people moved to get out of their way.  Stiles might have actually enjoyed it if he hadn't been so upset.  Cora was already there when they got there, sitting on the bottom step and texting with a dark look on her face.  The look only got darker when she saw him there.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she demanded. “How could you do that to him?”

He wondered, for a moment, how she could possibly already know what had happened downstairs, and then she remembered that she was Derek’s sister, and that it had probably been him she was texting.  Her moodiness from that morning suddenly made sense.  She’d already known Derek was mad at him, and she hadn’t given him any warning at all.

“You’re the one who told me to give it to him and didn’t bother warning me that he was pissed off!” Stiles snapped back. “What the hell, Cora?”

“Well, I didn’t expect you to make him admit his giant crush in the hallway in front of half the student body!  I thought you were going to talk to him privately and fix this!” she snapped back.

“How was I supposed to know that there was anything to fix?”

“Maybe if you gave a crap about anyone else’s issues for once, you might have!” Cora shouted. “But, oh poor you, you’re royalty, life has been so hard for you!”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Cora,” Stiles growled warningly, but she just laughed meanly.

“You’ve been handed the rest of your life on a silver platter, Stilinski.  You even got the girl you wanted, what could it have hurt to let my brother down gently?  God, I knew you were ignoring his crush, but I didn’t expect you to be so cruel.  Though I guess I should have, after you blew Derek off for the winter formal to go with perfect Lydia Martin instead.”

“What are you even talking about?” Stiles raged. “I didn’t blow him off…”

“He told me about how he was right in the middle of asking you and you agreed to go with Lydia instead,” Cora spat, standing up so that she wasn’t craning her neck back to look him in the face.  He thought she might have moved to stand a few stairs up so that she was taller than him, if it wouldn’t have been obvious what she was doing. “I wrote that off as you being stupid and excited, but now I’m beginning to think you just get off on breaking my brother’s heart!”

“I’m not trying to break anyone’s heart!” Stiles yelled, his voice ringing loudly in the stairwell.  It startled him enough that he lowered his voice. “Cora, I swear, I had _no idea_ that Derek liked me.  None at all.  I thought we were kinda friends, but mostly that he was just nice to me because I was _your_ friend.”

“Bull shit,” Cora snapped. “I told you to talk to him because I thought you’d be nice and let him down easy, so he can get over it and move on with his life.  You don’t have to like him back, but you have to let him off the hook.  I just didn’t think you’d be such a huge dick about it.”

“Cora, I’m not-!”

“Save it, Stiles.  Just leave Derek alone, okay?”

She grabbed her bag from the ground and slung it over her shoulder as she marched past them.  The plush wolf smacked against Stiles’ arm, like one final insult on top of everything else.

“What the hell is happening to my life?” Stiles asked morosely, sliding down the wall and tugging his knees to his chest.

Scott shrugged and tried to offer one of his earnest ‘it’ll all be okay’ smiles, but Stiles just groaned and buried his face in his knees.

Today sucked.

* * *

_15 September, 1997, Sacramento State, Introduction to American Literature_

_I called home today, mostly because I was feeling guilty that I’ve made no contact since I left the palace.  Father suggested that I was homesick and offered to send Jean-Philippe’s private jet to collect me, and that helped me remember why I haven’t called home in three weeks.  He kept assuring me that it was perfectly normal to miss home, and that he’d known that I would be begging to come back within a month.  I had to hang up on him and pretend the connection was lost.  He just doesn’t understand me, which I’m perfectly aware sounds melodramatic--_

_15 September, 1997 (still), Sacramento State, Campus Center_

_I had to stop my last entry in the middle to work on a group project in class, but I assure you it was well worth it.  You see, I was paired up with a boy sat in front of me, and I’ll be honest, he is quite nice to look at.  His name is John, and he looks just like those beautiful American boys you see in movies, with a strong jaw and a straight nose and pretty green eyes.  He has a very nice smile, and his ears turned red when he had to admit that he had never even heard of Genovia.  He was incredibly sweet and very funny, and I think I might have a crush.  I might have to pretend that I don’t quite understand the Great Gatsby in order to receive some extra study help._

_If nothing else comes from it, at least I’ll have something nice to look at for the rest of the semester._

* * *

“I would have thought you’d be a bit more excited about this,” John said as he straightened out Stiles’ suit jacket, which he’d managed to get horribly twisted on his own, and slid it up his arms and over his shoulders. “You’re going with Lydia Martin, right?  That’s been the dream since you were ten.”

“I am excited,” Stiles assured him, trying for an enthusiastic smile.  Judging by the grimace on his dad’s face, it didn’t quite work out.

“I am,” he insisted. “Just...today was kind of terrible, is all.  But the dance is gonna be fun, and Lydia is definitely going to fall in love with me, so.  All according to plan.”

“You don’t have to go if you’re not feeling up to it,” John suggested light, and Stiles just stared at him incredulously for a moment.

“Um, yes I do have to go.  The dream since I was ten, remember?  It’ll all be fine.  Lydia will be my girlfriend and I’ll make up with Derek and Cora, and everything will be _great_.”

His dad got that Look on his face, then.  The suspicious yet vaguely caring look that meant he was about to push.  He let out a deep sigh, took a step back, and then sat down on the end of Stiles’ bed so that he could Look at him more effectively.  Clearly they were going to have a Talk.

“What exactly happened between you and the Hales, son?”

“It’s nothing,” Stiles insisted, fiddling with his cufflinks for lack of something better to look at. “I just...I guess I was kind of oblivious and it got me in trouble.  It’s fine.”

“Uh huh,” John said.  He stared again, the same way he did when he knew someone was lying and was trying to compel them to tell the truth.  Stiles had seen grown men crumble before that look, but he’d had a lot of practice staring it down.  He was immune.  He stared back, narrowing his eyes just slightly, but his dad was completely unperturbed.

“Derek Hale has a crush on me and I kind of broke his heart even though I didn’t mean to.”

God damn it.  

Not so immune, apparently.

John paused for a long moment, looking like he wasn’t sure whether or not he should believe that, but the miserable look on Stiles’ face must have convinced him.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Stiles insisted. “Well, not on purpose.  Just that I didn’t know about it and so I was always talking about Lydia in his face and then I said that he was ‘just Cora’s brother’ in that interview and he’s really upset.  And Cora’s mad because of it.”

“Sounds like a case of hurt feelings,” his dad said, looking relieved that it wasn’t something more serious. “I think that will work out just fine.  Did you apologize?”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighed. “It hasn’t helped so far.”

“Give it time,” John suggested. “They’ll come around.  They’re your friends.”

“Cora, yeah,” Stiles said. “But Derek...I don’t know.  I mean...he’s Derek.  And I do like him, but Lydia…”

“You can still be his friend, even if you don’t want to be his boyfriend,” John reminded him gently. “And to be honest, kid, if you do maybe want to be his boyfriend, it’s a little more realistic than Lydia Martin, isn’t it?”

“Wow, thanks,” Stiles scoffed. “Good to know even my own dad thinks I’m not good enough for her.”

“That’s not what I meant,” John scoffed. “Just that, you actually know Derek, don’t you?  You know his likes and dislikes and you’ve hung out and had actual conversations.  I’ve personally heard you refer to him as ‘hot like burning’ on more than one occasion.  But you don’t really know Lydia at all, do you?”

“Dad, I’ve known Lydia since kindergarten.”

“But what’s her favorite color?”

“...I don’t know?  Pink, probably?”

“And what’s Derek’s?”

“Green.”

John raised his eyebrows, as if that made his entire point.  And maybe it did, but…

“Just because I know his favorite color doesn’t mean that I should be dating him,” Stiles insisted, crossing his arms in front of him and then quickly dropping them again, worried about wrinkling his suit.

“I’m not saying you should be, necessarily,” John said, his tone easy and placating. “Just that I think you’ve been so fixated on Lydia Martin for so long that you’re missing out on actual relationships you could be having.  And that maybe you feel more for the Hale boy than you let yourself realize.”

Stiles thought, suddenly, of how nice Derek smelled, and the way he’d wanted to bury his nose in his neck at the movie theater.  The way that Derek’s smile always made him want to smile too, and the delight he felt whenever he made some sort of sarcastic, disparaging comment.  

Maybe...but…

“No,” he said forcefully. “I’ve finally gotten Lydia to notice me, Dad.  I can’t give her up now, not after waiting so long.”

“That’s your choice, kid,” John told him, standing up and patting him on the shoulder gruffly, apparently having used up his feelings quota for the week.

“Thanks for the emotions talk, Dad,” Stiles said, only half joking. “Go drink a beer and watch the Vikings game you missed last night.  Make yourself feel manly again.”

John grunted at him irritably and left the room, presumably to go do just what Stiles had suggested.

Stiles sighed and turned to survey himself in the full length mirror propped awkwardly in the corner of his room.  It was a huge, heavy thing made of dark cherry colored wood, and it had belonged to his mother.  It had been in the attic the day before, shoved into a back corner under an ugly floral purple sheet, but when Stiles had gotten home from Sacramento earlier that day, he had found it there waiting for him.  His dad hadn’t said anything about it, so Stiles hadn’t either, but it cut an imposing figure in the corner that he couldn’t ignore.

He was surprised by what he saw when he looked.  The suit was a slim cut, which he thought should have emphasized his gangly awkwardness, but instead kind of made him look tall and distinguished and, honestly, a bit hipster.  The suit was Gucci, a light gray color with a subtle plaid pattern that had made Grandpère roll his eyes so hard he probably saw his own brain, and Lydia had paired it with a pale pink shirt and a skinny black tie.  Stiles had had almost no say in the selection, but he hadn’t been willing to go up against Lydia when she had the vicious gleam in her eye.  Anyway, it turned out she’d been right, because he thought he looked pretty good.  He wasn’t the awkward teenager he was used to seeing, but more like a real adult person.   At least on the outside.

On the inside, he was still a gigantic spaz.  But he was a gigantic spaz who had a date with the smartest, hottest girl in school.  So there.

…

As it turned out, having Chris drive him in the SUV felt vaguely like being taken to his first day of high school by his dad.  He was just...there.  In the front seat.  Constantly present.  He’d even come inside with him when he’d stopped to pick up Lydia and she’d insisted on taking some photos, as if he thought the Martins were actually the heads of a royal kidnapping ring.  The guy was just doing his job, but it was still kind of awkward.

“So, uh.  What’s your favorite color?” Stiles asked into the silence of the car while Lydia messed around with Instagram filters on her phone.

She paused for a moment before looking up at him with a judgmental sort of face that made him feel about three inches tall.  She pursed her lips and then looked pointedly down at the satin dress she wore, colored the same pale pink as Stiles’ shirt.

“Right,” Stiles said. “I like red.  Which is kinda like pink, you know.  Add some white in there, give it a mix…”

“Yes, I know how to make pink,” she said sharply.  

Then she paused, grimaced, and fixed him with a pleasant smile, like she was actively reminding herself to be nice.  Which wouldn’t actually be that surprising, really.  Lydia Martin was many things, but nice wasn’t one of them.  But that was okay, since nice wasn’t exactly Stiles’ default setting either.

“It looks really nice on you,” he offered awkwardly. “Pink.  I mean, your dress looks...you look good.”

He heard Chris snort audibly, so he kicked the back of his seat as subtly as he could.  Judging by the unimpressed look on Lydia’s face, it was pretty noticeable.

“Thanks,” she said, pursing her lips as he she continued to look down at her phone.  He could see that she was posting one of the pictures they’d taken with a kissy face emoji and #PrinceStiles.  She looked much happier in the picture than she did in real life.

“I know you’re just going to this dance with me because I’m a prince,” Stiles said finally.  They were pulling into the school parking lot, which was jammed with more cars than usual, and also with the usual paparazzi. “Did you call them?”

“Please, I’m not desperate for attention,” Lydia scoffed. “Don’t they follow you everywhere lately?”  She didn’t deny his accusation, but he hadn’t really expected her to.

“Listen, Lydia,” Stiles said. “I knew when you asked me that you only did it because of the royalty thing.  And I’m fine with that, because it gives you a chance to actually get to know me.  I’ve been in love with you since the third grade, and I know that underneath that ice cold front you put on that you’re an actual person with feelings, no matter how well you hide them.  I also know that you’re crazy smart and are probably gonna rule the world one day, even though you try so hard to pretend you’re just a vapid bitch.  I’m not asking you to fall in love with me, okay?  I’m just asking you to give me a chance.  Not Prince Maczysz, just Stiles.”

Lydia stared at him for a long moment.  Chris had pulled the car into a parking space and killed the engine, so the only sounds were the muffled noises of people moving around outside and Stiles’ own internal panic.  Finally, she pursed her lips and heaved a huge sigh.

“Are you going to get my door?” she asked pointedly, and he scrambled to obey.  It wasn’t an outright agreement, but Stiles figured it was close enough.

She stepped out of the car like the school parking lot was a red carpet and everyone was just waiting to view her glory.  It probably wasn’t that bad of a comparison, considering the frenzied paps waiting for them.  Stiles felt oddly frumpy next to her, like he should just stand back and gesture emphatically while she soaked up all the adoration she deserved.  He saw that people were already walking through them, some of them posing for cameras that weren’t actually taking pictures and others talking to reporters, probably trying to convince the that they were Stiles’ very best friend and that they should get their picture on TV because of it.  Jackson Whittemore was there, sneering like a GQ model while his date simpered at a guy with a camera, trying to stay in front of the lens as he swept the crowd with it.

“Your Highness, there is a side door we can take…” Chris started to say, but Lydia tore her eyes from Jackson and fixed him with an imperious stare, her arms crossed firmly in front of her.

“I’m not going to _sneak in_ a side door,” she informed him. “Martins don’t sneak anywhere.”

She stalked off towards the front doors like a model on a runway, moving surprisingly fast in her towering heels.  Stiles grimaced at Chris, since he would have preferred to use the side door as well, but then shrugged and followed after her, leaving Chris to heave an impressive sigh and mutter about teenagers under his breath.

By the time he caught up to her, the paps had noticed him, and the cameras were flashing brightly in his face.

“This is why we wanted to use the side door!” Stiles told her, raising his voice so she could hear him over the shouting. She rolled her eyes at him and grabbed his arm, pulling him close.  At first he thought she was trying to get him to move along, and he was all for it, but then she came to a dead stop in the middle of the runway the paps had created.

“Prince Stiles, who is your date?”

“Is she your girlfriend?”

“Just smile for the cameras, Stiles,” she told him through her own perfect, glossy smile.  She grabbed his hand and planted it on her waist, angling her body towards him while he tried to push down the feeling of dread.

“Lydia, come on,” he mumbled through what he was sure was a painful looking smile. “Didn’t you get enough pictures earlier?”  He tried to usher her forward, but she was surprisingly hard to move for someone so small.

“Young lady, what’s your name?  How old are you?”

“I’m Lydia Martin,” she said, still smiling like a beauty queen. “That’s M-A-R-T-I-N.  I’m sixteen…”

“Lydia, come on!” Stiles hissed, looking around for Chris, but finding that the crowd of paps had closed around them and that he was nowhere to be seen.  He did spot Jackson, looking irritated as he tried to get out of the crush of bodies that paid him no mind and remained a solid wall.  Stiles was sure Chris was having the same problem on the other side.

“Hey, Prince Stiles, give her a kiss!” someone yelled, and Lydia looked at him speculatively before rising on her toes and planting her lips on his.

It was everything he’d always wanted and dreamed, and it was the worst thing ever.  She smelled like floral perfume, the press of her lips was soft but insistent, and her waist fit just right between his hands.  But there was also the flash of cameras and shouting, her hands clutching his shoulders with a surprisingly strong grip, her nails digging into his skin through his jacket.  Her lip gloss felt sticky against his mouth, and even though she was clinging to him, her body was stiff under his hands.

The side of his face exploded in pain suddenly, and he found himself reeling away from Lydia with such force that it made them both stumble.  She recovered all right, even on her insanely high heels, but Stiles hit the ground hard.  The flashes were going double time now, and he didn’t have enough time to figure out what the hell happened before Jackson was in his face, grabbing him by the front of his suit and dragging him up again.

“Jackson!” Lydia screamed, grabbing at his arm and preventing him from hitting Stiles in the face again.

“You think you can just kiss my girlfriend?” Jackson spat, his face fixed in an ugly scowl. “You think you can put your hands on her?”

“Jackson leave him alone!” Lydia shouted, trying to pull him away, but having very little success.

Chris broke through the crowd then, apparently much more motivated to push and shove people when Stiles was actively being attacked.  Jackson saw him coming and seemed to realize that he’d made a huge mistake, because his face went white as a sheet and he dropped Stiles to the ground before turning tail and fleeing through the crowd.  

Chris looked torn between getting Stiles up and away and chasing after Jackson, but eventually decided on the former.  He got his arms under Stiles’ and lifted him like a sack of potatoes, ushering him forward with forceful pushes.

“Move!” he barked at the paps between them and the school, and apparently he had that serial killer look on his face again, because they scrambled to get out of his way.  

They got into the school with no other obstacles, but Stiles could already feel his face pounding with pain and what was sure to be a gnarly bruise.  Lydia was hanging around like she wasn’t sure what to do, looking guilty with her hands flapping uncertainly in front of her.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t know he would do that…”

“But you did it to make him jealous,” Stiles interrupted her. “Asking me to the dance, kissing me in front of those cameras.  It was all for him.”

“Yeah,” she admitted, biting her lip and actually managing to look contrite. “You...you’re a good guy, Stiles.  I could probably even like you as a person.  But…”

“But you love Jackson,” Stiles sighed, touching his face gently and wincing.

“Yeah,” she said.

“I get it,” Stiles told her, even though he really didn’t.  Jackson was a raging douchebag, after all. “Go find him.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, but she was already scanning down the hall for him.

“I’m sure, go on,” he said, waving her away.  She spared him a tight, close-lipped smile before hurrying off down the hall towards the gym, her heels clacking loudly as she went.

“I got a teacher to bring the car around, Your Highness,” Chris reported, lifting Stiles’ face with surprisingly gentle hands and inspecting it with a soft tut. “You’re going to have quite the bruise.  I apologize for not being there…”

“It’s fine, Chris,” Stiles sighed. “Just take me home.”


	4. Chapter 4

_ 27 October, 1997, Sacramento State, Sierra Hall _

_ My first date with John was absolutely wonderful.  He can be so endearingly awkward, sometimes, but also very suave and sweet.  He took me to see  _ I Know What You Did Last Summer _ and didn’t even mind when I provided commentary, though that could have been because it was so bad that my witty repartee could only improve it.  After the movie we went for frozen yogurt, which we both decided wasn’t half as good as regular ice cream, despite it’s recent popularity.  We sat out on a bench on the sidewalk and watched people pass by and just talked for a long time.   _

_ I told him about Father and Jean-Philippe and why I had left Genovia, though obviously I omitted the Big Royal Secret.  He told me about his own parents, who emigrated from Poland before he was born, and about his two older brothers who still lived in Wisconsin.  He said he’d always wanted to get away from his tiny hometown, but that he really didn’t like Sacramento either.  He talks about his life as if he’s just trying to get away from the things he’s known so that he can find his own place, just for him.  I understand that urge quite well. _

_ I never really expected to find a man I wanted to date while I was here.  Coming to America has always been more of an effort in figuring out who I am away from my obligations to my country.  I wanted to take that quintessential journey and find myself.  Now I am beginning to wonder if that journey must be completed alone.  Maybe it’s okay to find myself with John.  Maybe he’s looking for himself too, and we’ll find us together.  Maybe things don’t always have to work out the way that you planned to be good. _

* * *

It took everything Stiles had to resist flinching at the heavy “thwack!” noise that came from the newspaper when Grandpère slapped it down on the table in front of him.  The front page had two full-color pictures slapped side-by-side on the front, one of him being kissed by Lydia and the other with him on the ground while Jackson held him up by the front of his suit, his fist raised.  The headline above it was a succinct, simple, and stupid, reading: “Playboy Prince?” in large black letters.

“I don’t know  _ what _ you were thinking, brawling like a common thug…”

“Okay, I didn’t exactly start that fight,” Stiles defended himself. “And I didn’t actually hit him back, either!  I’m the victim, here!”

“You are a representative of your country, Maczysz!” Grandpère said.  Stiles would have called it yelling, except that it wasn’t yelling at all.  It was firm and angry, no doubt, but his voice remained totally level the whole time.  Somehow, it was worse than yelling. “What you do reflects on Genovia, and here you look not only like a numb-skulled buffoon, but also like a weak one!”

“So what, I should have hit Jackson back?” Stiles asked incredulously.

“You should not have been in such a situation in the first place!” Grandpère snapped. “I told you that Miss Martin was not good for you, but did you listen to me?  Of course not!  Instead you had to run off half-cocked…”

“I’m not going to stop my life just because you…”

“...getting into fights on the street with…”

“...didn’t know Jackson was going to…”

“...acting like a foolish, undisciplined teenager…”

“...I am a teenager!”

“You are a member of the Genovian Royal Family, and you must act like it, Claudia!” Grandpère thundered, and they both fell utterly silent, staring at each other in surprise.  

Grandpère turned away from him then, crossing his arms behind him and clasping his wrist with the opposite hand while he stared out the window over the garden in the backyard.  It was like his aloof, regal mask slid straight back into place, like if he just pretended that he was calm and collected, Stiles would forget about the name slip up.  Even though Stiles was fairly sure that his face was still red and blotchy from his own anger, he let it drop.

“I just can’t do this, Grandpère,” he said, deflating. “I’m not a Prince.  I wasn’t raised for it.  I’m just a guy.  Just a teenager from California.  Two months ago my biggest problems involved test scores and getting a girl to notice me.  I just...can’t.”

“No one is born with the know-how, Maczysz.  There is a learning curve…”

“I’m just not the right kind of person,” Stiles insisted. “I’m clumsy and awkward and kind of an asshole.  I know shit about diplomacy and I can’t give any sort of speech because I babble on about anything that crosses my brain.  I can’t lead a country.  I am sorry, Grandpère.  I know that I’m letting you and the whole Renaldo line down.  But I just can’t do it.”

“Well, ultimately it is your choice,” Grandpère said stiffly. “It was always your choice.  You will have to formally abdicate at the ball, of course.”

“Right,” Stiles sighed, feeling the hints of dismissal in the air, even if Grandpère didn’t actually say anything. “I guess I can do that.  I’ll, uh, see you then, I suppose.”

“Indeed,” Grandpère responded. “If your face is still discolored, please show up early so that we can have someone hide it.”

“Will do,” Stiles promised, turning to leave.  He was halfway out the door when Grandpère called after him once more.

“Stiles,” he said, and the use of his chosen nickname was enough to shock him into stopping and listening. “You remind me so much of your mother sometimes.  She was headstrong and carefree much like you, and she had no desire to let me or anyone else tell her how to lead her life.  Your similarities to her are why I know you would be a capable leader for Genovia.  Not only capable, but good.  You would be a great leader for Genovia and, no matter what you choose, I think you should know that.”

“Thanks, Grandpère,” Stiles said, because he didn’t know what else to say.  He left then, wishing that he had something better to say.  But he didn’t.  He was sixteen and he was scared.  Being a prince was too big for him, and some inspirational words about his dead mother weren’t going to change that.

* * *

_ 21 September, 1998, John’s apartment, Sacramento, CA _

_ I’m pregnant. _

_ I’m not as surprised as I think I should be.  I think that part of me has suspected for at least a week, since I have felt so under the weather.  Of course, there’s always that surge of panic in the back of my brain anytime a period is late that I might be pregnant, but I’ve had that same irrational panic since I was twelve and decidedly not having sex, so I suppose I must have lulled myself into a false sense of security.  I took two pregnancy tests this morning, and then went to Planned Parenthood to find out for sure.  They’ve assured me that I’m two months along.  It seems absurd, that I’ve been growing a person for two whole months and had no idea about it. _

_ I don’t know how I’m supposed to tell John.  He doesn’t even know that I’m a Princess, or that this child of ours will be third in line to the throne of a country he hadn’t even heard of a year ago.  He will be happy about the baby, I think.  As much as he can be, at least, being only twenty-one and still in school.  I don’t know how he’ll feel about the royalty bit. _

_ I’ll have to tell Father as well.  He won’t be pleased at all.  He’ll probably try to make me come home, but I can’t do that.  I can’t take this baby away from John, particularly not to be raised as a shameful bastard at the Genovian palace.  I don’t know what I’m going to do, but it has to start with John.  He deserves to know the whole truth because now, for better or worse, we are connected forever. _

* * *

The universe had to have a serious hate-on for him.  

That was the only reason that Stiles could think of that it was Mrs. Hale who answered the door, greeting him with a stiff kind of politeness that told him she knew exactly how much he’d upset her kids.  If there was any justice at all, it would have been Laura who answered the door or, even better, Cora herself.  Instead, he got Talia Hale, who he was pretty sure could disembowel him with her pinky.

“Um, hi Mrs. Hale,” he greeted, aware that his voice was squeaky with fear. “Is, uh.  Is Cora home?”

“I was under the impression that she didn’t want to see you,” Mrs. Hale said, raising her eyebrows.

“Um, maybe,” Stiles admitted. “I mean, she never actually said that, she just told me to stay away from Derek.  Which, admittedly, is probably hard to do when I show up at his house, but I swear, Mrs. Hale I just want to talk to her and apologize but I can’t catch up with her at school and she won’t answer my calls…”

“Stiles,” Mrs. Hale interrupted, looking amused. “Go on up. Whatever you did, fix it.  I’m tired of seeing my kids upset.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Hale,” Stiles said, sliding past her and heading up the huge staircase to the second floor.  He passed Laura’s door, painted a bright purple that stood out in the neutral tones of the hallway, with an NYU flag pinned to it, and the propped-open bathroom door.  Derek’s was right next to it with a huge wooden sign with his name carved into it.  Cora’s was at the end of the hall, plastered with Greenpeace and Amnesty International stickers.  He knocked on it, pushing it open when she called out for him to open it.

“Hey, Cora.”

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, swinging around in her desk chair to glare at him.  Even though she was just sitting in a blue computer chair, he got a very Bond villain vibe from it.  All she needed was a fluffy animal to pet.

“Can we talk?” he asked, and she scowled at him.  Apparently they were going to go through her range of angry expressions, of which she had many.

“Does Derek know you’re here?”

“Not as far as I know,” Stiles shrugged. “I...you said to leave him alone, so I have.”

“Fine,” she said flatly. “Get in here and close the door.”

He did so, feeling kind of strange about it.  He’d never actually been in Cora’s room before.  The Hales had a pretty strict rule about opposite genders in their kids rooms, and even though Cora and Stiles had absolutely no intention of ever being anything more than friends, the rules had still applied to them.  

The room was pretty much as he expected it to be.  The walls were painted a bright blue color, but the paint could hardly be seen behind a bunch of posters ranging from Fall Out Boy to a big pink “I Stand with Planned Parenthood” sign.  There was a big bed and a dresser and a writing desk, all standard bedroom fare, and yet every piece of it utterly Cora.

“Okay, so, talk,” she said, leaning back in her chair and fixing him with a glare. “Where should we start?  How about with how hard it is for poor little Prince Stiles…”

“I’m sorry, Cora,” Stiles interrupted. “I’m really, truly sorry, okay?  I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone.  I guess I was so caught up in my own shit that I didn’t notice anything else.  I know I’ve been blowing you off a lot lately and I get that you’re mad and I’m  _ sorry _ .  But it’s not going to be a problem anymore because I’m not going to be a prince, okay?  So it’ll all go back to normal, and it would be really cool if you could still be my friend.”

Cora sat forward in her chair so suddenly that it almost looked like she was falling, but her feet planted firmly on the ground and she stared at him with wide eyes.

“What do you mean, you’re not going to be a prince?” she demanded.

“I told Grandpère that I’m going to renounce my claim to the throne at the ball on Friday,” Stiles told her, shrugging awkwardly as she continued to stare at him.

“But why?” she demanded.

“Because this prince thing is kind of ruining my life.  And I haven’t talked to a single person who thinks it’s genuinely a good idea, so…”

“I do.”

“I mean, I’ll probably still be hounded by paps for a couple weeks but after that... _ what _ ?”

Stiles stared at her incredulously as she ducked her head and twisted her hair around her finger, mumbling, “I think you should be a prince.”

“What are you even talking about?” Stiles demanded. “You haven’t had a single good thing to say about it since you found out and now all of a sudden you think I should just change my whole life and go for it?”

“I was jealous, okay?” Cora snapped. “I’ve always wanted to make difference in the world, Stiles!  I follow the causes of all these different interest groups and try to raise awareness for them here, but I can’t get anyone to listen to me, because I’m just a teenager.  I got thirteen signatures on my swimming petition, did you know that?”

“No,” Stiles said hoarsely, because of course he hadn’t.  Apparently he’d been too wrapped up in himself to notice that his friends might be having problems too.

“Well I did,” she snapped. “This whole thing you’ve got going for you, this prince thing?  It’s amazing Stiles.  Wanting to change the world but having no power, like me?  It  _ sucks _ .  But you actually  _ have _ power!  The power to affect to change, to make people listen!  How many teenagers can say that?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles sighed, covering his face with his hands for a moment. “And I see what you’re saying, I really do, but...I just can’t do it.  It’s not for me.  I’ll affect change some other way, and so will you, but this can’t be the way I do it.  It just can’t.  I’m sorry that I’m disappointing you again, but I just...I never wanted to be more than what I am, Cora.”

“I get it,” she told him sullenly, looking down at her painted toes. “I think you’re crazy, but I get it.”

“So...are you still mad at me?”

“Not about the prince thing, no,” she said. “But I’m still pissed at you for Derek.”

“That’s fair, I guess,” Stiles sighed, sitting on the end of her bed. “But I swear I didn’t know he had a crush on me.  I’m an asshole, yeah, but not like that.”

“There’s no way anyone could be that oblivious,” Cora argued, but she sounded less certain than she had a few days ago. “He acts like the sun shines out of your ass.”

“I didn’t know,” Stiles insisted, staring at her intensely, as if could convince her with just the power of his gaze. “I swear.  I mean, I guess I did kind of lead him on a bit, but I’ve only realized that in retrospect.  I’d never do that on purpose.”

“I believe you,” she sighed, sounding kind of put out about it. “I know you’re not like that.  I was just so mad…”

“Yeah, no, I get it,” Stiles told her quickly. “And to be honest I kind of...maybe...well, I talked to my dad the other day and he maybe made me realize that…”

Cora rolled her eyes powerfully and made a winding motion with her hand,

“Spit it out, Stilinski.”

“Well, I kind of realized that maybe I do like Derek like that,” Stiles admitted. “I mean, I never really thought about it before because I was so aggressively obsessed with Lydia, but when I look back on it, most people don’t constantly think about how hot their friends are, or how good they smell.”

“No, they don’t,” Cora said slowly, narrowing her eyes at him. “But damn it, Stiles, I won’t let you treat him like a rebound.  I heard what happened with Lydia last weekend, and on Monday it was really obvious that she and Jackson were back together…”

“I don’t want him to be a rebound,” Stiles assured her hurriedly. “I just...I kind of realized that the thing with Lydia is never going to happen, and even if it was I don’t think she’s actually what I really want.  When she kissed me, all I could think about was how sticky her lipgloss was.”

Cora snorted out a laugh, and Stiles grinned a little guiltily at her in return.

“Anyway, I can’t promise that I’ll fall in love with your brother or anything.  But...I do like him a lot, and I want to see what can happen between us, if he forgives me enough to try.”

“Okay,” Cora sighed. “You have my blessing, Stiles, but only if you’re serious.  Like absolutely, one hundred percent serious that you like Derek and that you aren’t just grabbing up the one person you know for sure will date you.”

“I am one hundred percent serious,” Stiles promised.

“Good,” she said. “It’s about time you two got your shit together.”

She didn’t smile at him, but she wasn’t really a smiler, either.  The way she rolled her eyes and kicked out at him with her bare toes was smile enough, especially when she added,

“So is the ball cancelled?  Because I already bought a really expensive dress.”

…

He hadn’t really planned on talking to Derek immediately.  He’d been angling more for giving it a few days and coming up with some grand I’m-sorry-also-maybe-we-should-date speech.  Instead, they bumped into each other in the hallway as he was leaving Cora’s room.  Derek’s face darkened immediately, and he glanced at his bedroom door like he was thinking about making a break for it, so Stiles spoke up quickly.

“Derek!”

So, it wasn’t exactly a sonnet, but it was effective anyway.

“What are you doing here?” Derek asked, sounding more sullen than angry, which was probably a good sign.

“I, uh, I came to see Cora.”

“Right,” Derek said, and then looked longingly at his bedroom door again.

“And I was hoping I could talk to you,” he added quickly.  No time like the present, apparently.

“I’m kind of busy,” Derek said unconvincingly.  He was wearing Star Wars pajama pants and his hair was a mess, like he’d just crawled out of a blanket cave and ventured downstairs in order to retrieve the can of Pepsi he had clenched in his fist.

“I’ll be quick,” Stiles promised, and then barreled on before Derek could offer another excuse. “I just really wanted to apologize for being such a dick. I know you’re mad at me, and I deserve that, but I just...I want you to know that I really had no idea about how you feel about me.  I swear I didn’t know, and if I had I wouldn’t have been such a bastard about the whole Lydia thing.  And I should never have said that you were just Cora’s brother, because you’re my friend.  I swear I didn’t mean anything by it, I just live with my foot eternally in my mouth.”

Derek cracked the tiniest of smiles. It was there just for a second before he seemed to realize what he was doing and shut his face down into a moody scowl, but it was enough to give Stiles hope.

“So, I was hoping I could make it up to you,” Stiles said quickly.

“How?” Derek asked, still scowling.

“Well, I already invited you to the ball as my friend, but I was hoping that maybe you might go as my date instead?”

Derek’s scowl deepened into a dark glare, which was the opposite of what Stiles had hoped for.

“I don’t need your  _ pity _ ,” he spat, taking a step towards his door.

“It’s not pity!” Stiles said quickly, grabbing his arm desperately.  Derek looked pointedly at Stiles’ hand and then back up at his face, and he looked just furious enough that Stiles let him go quickly, fearing he might do something like bite him. “I just thought...I’ve always liked you, Derek, I just didn’t know how much, I guess.  I just thought, maybe we could try it out.  See how it goes.”

“Lydia would fit in better at a ball,” Derek said stonily.

“But I don’t want to go with Lydia, I want to go with you.”

“I won’t be your rebound,” Derek growled. “And I don’t need your fumbling attempts at ‘making it up to me’ just because you feel bad about upsetting the little people.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, Your Highness, I have things to do.”

He gave a tense, sarcastic bow and stalked into his room, slamming the door behind him.  The sound of it rang in Stiles’ ears all the way home.

* * *

_ 14 June, 1999, Lexington Palace; Pyrus, Genovia _

_ It is so typical that Father demanded we come to Genovia as soon as we felt Maczysz was old enough to fly and then leaves us sitting in my quarters for an hour without coming to greet us.  Jean-Philippe I can forgive, because he is busy almost constantly, but Father is only doing this to put me in my place.  I know that he is upset that John and I did not have a large wedding ceremony, but rather married in a courthouse over a free weekend.  However, he must also realize that planning a large ceremony would have had my son born before I was married, and though I don’t need my claim, I refuse to allow my son’s to be taken from him simply for being born a bastard.  Part of me is suspicious that Father hoped my son would be illegitimate, and that is why he is so bothered by our quick marriage.  Sometimes I wonder what sort of post-birthing delirium I had when I insisted that we name our son after my father. _

_ If this is how he plans to convince me not to give up my title, I question his judgment.  Either way, the decision is already made.  Whenever I look at my beautiful little boy, I know I could never raise him in the same life I grew up in.  It would kill his spirit to grow up locked away in a palace, only venturing out to have people watch his every move and flash cameras in his face. My Maczysz is a skinny little slip of a thing, but he makes his presence known.  His howls and babbles light up my entire life.  The idea that I could be responsible for taking that light away from him with the weight of growing up in the spotlight is horrifying.  I won’t do that to him.   When he is an adult, he can make his own choices, but until then I’ll protect him with everything I have in me. _

_ This waiting is ridiculous.  If Father can’t be bothered to greet us, then I shall take matters into my own hands.  I think I’ll go show John around my city. _

* * *

* * *

The last person Stiles expected to stop him in the hallway after lunch was Lydia Martin.  She’d had her fifteen seconds of fame, she’d made her ex sufficiently jealous, and  was now firmly back ‘on’ with that ex.  She had no more use for Stiles.

And yet, there she was, in a flowy mini skirt and crop top, looking as flawless as ever.  The only difference was that Stiles’ stomach didn’t flip at the sight of her.  Sure, she was as beautiful and intimidating as ever, but the lack of spark between them was persistent in the back of his brain.

“I want to talk to you,” she said.  

It was more of a demand than a request, but Stiles wasn’t really offended.  Lydia was used to people falling over themselves to accommodate her.  Scott paused, looking torn between making it to World Civ on time and staying behind to be a supportive bro, but Stiles just waved him off.  Scott shot him an encouraging puppy dog smile and headed off down the hall, but Chris stepped almost uncomfortably close to Stiles, casing the hall suspiciously like he expected Jackson to leap out of a locker, ready to fight.

“What’s up?” Stiles asked. “If you’ve come by to make Jackson jealous for whatever reason, it would be cool if you’d do it with someone else.  My face still hurts.”

Lydia’s eyes shot to the vivid purple bruise around Stiles’ right eye and he saw her wince just slightly.  It was kind of surprising, coming from her, and part of him wondered if it was a calculated move or if she honestly felt guilty about it.

“I just wanted to say that I think I underestimated you,” she said, straightening up and squaring her shoulders. “I always thought of you as more of a spastic nuisance than anything else…”

“Wow, thanks,” Stiles muttered.  It was true, but also kind of humiliating.

“But now I’ve seen that you’re more than that,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “You see things that other people don’t.  You’re not afraid to take advantage of a situation if you think you can make it work for you, and I respect that.  But you also aren’t petty.”

“Well, thanks for this rundown of my positive characteristics,” Stiles said uncertainly as the bell rang overhead. “But what do you want, Lydia?”

“I wanted to thank you for not pressing charges against Jackson, even though he clearly deserved it.  His parents have been threatening to send him to London to live with relatives, and I think they actually would have done it if he had legal action brought up against him.”

“You’re welcome,” Stiles said. “Mostly I just didn’t want to deal with the hassle.”

“Whatever reason you did it, I appreciate it,” she said.

“I’d say any time, but if he hits me again he’s gonna get slapped with charges,” Stiles warned. “If Chris doesn’t rip his head off with his bare hands first.”

Chris made a huffing noise like he was seriously considering it, and Lydia cracked a smile at him and eyed him appreciatively, which was weirdly disturbing.  Like yeah, Chris definitely had a hot dad thing going for him, but he was also scary as shit, and not in the fun kind of way.  She shifted her gaze back to Stiles and nodded authoritatively, like she’d just made a grand decision that only she was privy to.

“We’re going to be friends now,” she informed him, and it absolutely was not a request. “I don’t want to to date you, but I like you.  You’ll definitely be interesting to have around.”

“Okay,” Stiles said, because it wasn’t worth it to argue, and he didn’t think he wanted to anyway. “Sounds good.”

“Great,” she said. “I’ll see you later.”

She made her exit then, stalking off down the hallway like it was a runway.  He watched her go, feeling vaguely like he’d just been punk’d.  She slipped into a classroom down the hall without looking back, and he was struck dumb at the way she commanded every space she was in.  Lydia Martin, queen of his heart.

“Your Highness,” Chris said, clearing his throat, “You’re late for your class.”

Stiles swore loudly and took off at a run down the hall.

...

By Friday afternoon, with only hours remaining before the ball, Stiles had given up on Derek forgiving him.  He hadn’t seen even a peek of him since they’d spoken on Wednesday, which he guessed he probably should have expected, given the state things had been in as Stiles left.  Beacon Hill High School wasn’t huge, so Derek must have been putting in a lot of effort in order to make sure they didn’t cross paths.

After spending the morning loitering around like a creep, hoping to catch him somewhere, Stiles had finally decided that he should just respect his wishes and let him be.  He wasn’t exactly graceful about it, since he was sure people could literally see the thundercloud building over his head, but he knew how to take a hint.

“Why do you look like someone pissed in your cheerios?” Lydia asked during their shared studyhall seventh period.

“Believe it or not, I’ve kind of got a lot on my plate right now,” Stiles grumbled, shooting her a glare.  She rolled her eyes and flipped her hair over her shoulder, pursing her lips primly.

“You’ve had a lot on your plate for weeks,” she said. “But now you’re being downright miserable.  So what’s changed?”

“Like you even noticed I existed a few weeks ago,” Stiles shot back, because agitating Lydia was better than actually talking about his feelings.

“I noticed,” Lydia informed him. “It’s hard not to notice when a creepy little skeeze stares at you all the time.  I just chose to ignore you.”

“I was not creepy!”

“You were creepy,” Lydia said. “I like you much better now that you’re not trying to get under my skirt.”

“Oddly, I like you less,” Stiles retorted, even though they both knew it was a total lie.

Lydia wrote down a few equations on her sheet of paper and then looked back up at him sternly.

“You’re really bringing down my mood,” she complained. “Either tell me what’s wrong or go away.”

“You’re so sensitive, Lyds,” he sighed, batting his eyelashes at her.

“And you’re not as good at misdirection as you think you are,” she retorted. “Spill.”

“You’re the worst.  I’m just upset because Derek’s still pissed at me.”

“Ooh, I heard about that,” Lydia said knowingly. “He liked you but you liked me.”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighed. “Except that I’ve recently come across the realization that maybe I do like him…”

“Wow, way to get over me at the first opportunity,” she sniffed.

“You love that I got over you,” Stiles shot back. “Anyway, I asked him to go to the ball with me, but he’s still really upset.  I was hoping that maybe he’d decide to forgive me and give me a chance, but it’s kind of obvious that that’s not gonna happen.”

“So you’re moping over a boy,” she said, disgusted. “You’re better than that.”

“Okay, this from the girl who asked someone she didn’t even like out on a date just to make her ex jealous.”

“Exactly, I was proactive,” she said, narrowing her eyes dangerously at him. “You’re just pouting and giving up.”

“He doesn’t even want to see me, Lydia, what do you want me to do?  Stare creepily at him?  Because that hasn’t really worked out for me in the past.”

“Guys are so stupid,” Lydia lamented, rolling her eyes powerfully. “Make a gesture, dumbass.  Do something to show him you’re sorry.”

“Like what?” Stiles asked.

“I don’t know your life,” she snapped. “Something meaningful.  Something that will remind him of good times you’ve had together or something.  God, how do you manage to function on your own?”

“It’s a mystery for the ages,” Stiles informed her, mind already whirring as he tried to come up with something that might be suitably apologetic and meaningful.

…

He wasn’t sure why it took him over an hour to come up with an idea, since once it occurred to him it seemed super obvious.  He didn’t have a ton of time, but a few texts to Cora and a run to the convenience store later, his apology gesture had been put into motion.

* * *

_ 5 May, 2004, Parking Lot, Beacon Hills Memorial _

_ I just got the test results back.  Apparently I have been diagnosed with something called Frontotemporal Dementia.  As far as I understand, the nerves in my brain are damaged, and it’s spreading.  The doctor says I’ve got five years to live, at the very most, and that my quality of life will vastly deteriorate. _

_ I don’t know how I’m supposed to tell John.  I don’t know how I’ll explain it to Maczysz. _

* * *

“Why aren’t you...are you okay, son?”

Stiles looked up at his dad standing in the doorway to his room, half dressed in a tux.  Even with the cumberbund and jacket missing, he looked great, all suave and James Bond-esque.  Stiles, however, was sat on his bed in the clothes he’d worn to school, his face red and wet with tears.

“Yeah,” he croaked, holding up the purple diary and shaking it lightly. “I just finished mom’s diary.”

“Oh,” John said, his voice choking up as well. “That’s gotta be hard.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, sniffling. “She stopped writing in it months before she died.  I guess she was just too gone to remember.”

“I guess so,” John said, sighing quietly.

“She just...talked about normal stuff,” Stiles said. “Just like...getting the Christmas decorations put away and thinking of where she wanted to go out for Valentine’s Day.”

“She went downhill pretty fast at the end there,” John reminded him gently. “It almost seemed like one day she was mostly okay and the next she wasn’t.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Stiles said softly. “I guess I just thought I had more time.  I wasn’t ready to let her go yet.  Again.”

“I’m sorry, kid,” John sighed, settling down on the bed and pulling Stiles roughly against his side in a one-armed hug. “But, I might have one more thing for you.  If you think you’re ready for the goodbye.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked hopefully. “Another diary?”

“Not quite,” John said. “A letter.  She wrote it to you when she got her diagnosis, just in case.  I was supposed to keep it until your eighteenth birthday, but…”

“Now,” Stiles said quickly, his voice cracking. “I want it now.”

“All right,” John said. “I’ll go get it.  You get dressed, okay? And do something with your hair.”

“I don’t see why it matters,” Stiles sighed. “I’m just gonna tell them to find a new leader and they’ll have forgotten all about me by next week.”

“But you should at least look presentable while they do remember you.  Go on.”

Stiles sighed and trudged over to the bag holding his tux hanging from his closet door, more concerned with the idea of one final goodbye from his mom than any stupid ball.  Still, it took his dad long enough to find the letter than it did for Stiles to get dressed, so by the time he got back Stiles was scowling at his mess of a bowtie.

“You’ve made that thing a huge wrinkled mess,” John sighed. “Can you iron bowties?  Do we even have an iron?”

“Who cares, it’s just a bowtie,” Stiles scoffed, making grabby hands at the yellow envelope in his dad’s hand.  He could see his name scrawled on the front in his mother’s familiar handwriting.

“I’m gonna go look,” John said, handing Stiles the letter.  Stiles realized, suddenly, that it was an excuse for him to get away and give Stiles some privacy, and he wasn’t sure if he was grateful or if he wanted to beg his dad to stay with him while he read what would be the last new words from his mother he’d ever get.

He opened it with shaking fingers, a little disappointed that the paper didn’t smell of her the way her diaries had.  It was cheaper stuff though, just regular stationary paper instead of the thick expensive stuff that had been in first her diary.  It was dated nearly three years before she had died.  Stiles would have only been five, though he hadn’t really understood that something was wrong with his mother until about six months before she died, when sometimes she’d look at him and he’d see no recognition in her eyes.

Her handwriting on the page, though, was just the same as always; clean strokes and perfect curls that called out to him, even though he suddenly wasn’t sure that he was ready to read it.  But the thought of tucking the envelope away and not looking it for another year and a half was too hard to contemplate, so he took a breath and started to read.

...

“There’s no iron,” John sighed forlornly when he entered the room a few minutes later. “I don’t think I ever replaced it after you and Scott melted that G.I. Joe on it when you were nine.”

Stiles choked out a laugh and swiped the tears from his face, the letter lying in his lap where he’d set it when he finished reading it for the second time.

“How you doing, kid?” John asked softly.

“I’m okay,” Stiles said, wiping his eyes once more.  

He really was okay, which was not what he had expected when he’d started reading the letter.  But he was.  More okay than he’d been in weeks, really.  He was still afraid and uncertain and everything that he’d been before, but now that seemed more like a challenge to stand up to rather than a reason to run away.

“Come on, we’re gonna be late,” he said, setting the letter carefully on his desk and grabbing his bowtie from between his father’s lax fingers.

“We can be a little late if you need time,” John said earnestly. “The only one who will remember in a week is your grandfather, right?”

“Maybe,” Stiles agreed, fumbling with his bowtie a few times before giving up and just letting it hang there.  Someone could help him once they were at the Consulate.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” his dad asked suspiciously.

“I’m great dad,” Stiles assured him. “She told me just what I needed to hear.”

John smiled then, sad but also fond. “Yeah, she was good at that.  Come on, let’s go.”

* * *

_ 5 May, 2004 _

_ My Dearest Maczysz, _

_ Happy Birthday, my sweet baby boy.  I wish that I could be there to celebrate it with you.  Believe me when I say that there is no other place I’d rather be, but sometimes things don’t work out quite the way we plan.  If my life had gone the way I expected it to when I was your age, I wouldn’t have you or your father, and you are both the best and most brightest things in my life.  I wouldn’t trade you for all the universe.  I hope that you know that. _

_ By now your father must have told you about my being a princess and your lineage (if not, surprise!) and I know that the news must be shocking at the very least.  Though you are titleless and third in line, I understand that it must make you question everything about yourself and who you are meant to be.  But I think that it is a perfect opportunity to find yourself.  That is what you’re meant to do at your age, after all.  Maczysz, I want you to find out who you are and who you want to be, whether that means you become a cowboy (your current ideal job prospect) or a titled member of the aristocracy of your mother’s country. _

_ Just please, always remember this: you have the capability to be braver than you ever thought was possible.  Going into adulthood may seem incredibly daunting-and in many ways it really is-but I know that you are smart and talented and capable, and you can do anything you set your mind to.  Please, never miss out on opportunities because you’re afraid of them.  Throw yourself wholeheartedly into the unknown, embrace the things that terrify you, and when you feel like the darkness is closing in on you, stand tall and stare back.  If you never let your fear rule your choices, I think you will find that you’ve become exactly the kind of person that you most want to be. _

_ No matter what you do, where you go, wherever your choices take you, know this: I love you Maczysz, more than I have ever loved anything in all my life, and I am so very proud of you. _

_ All My Love, _

_ Mom _

* * *

They hit traffic on the way into the city, so rather than being five minutes late, they were twenty. Despite that, everything seemed to be in full swing; the Consulate looked amazing, all decked out for the ball.  The fountain was lit up, alternating between purple, white and green, the colors of the Genovian flag and every piece of plant life that could support a string of fairy lights was glowing with a soft, warm light.

There was a huge mob of reporters outside, lining the pathway from the round drive up to the bottom of the staircase.  Thankfully, they bypassed the front entrance and followed the curve around to the back entrance instead.  Stiles knew that there would definitely be more reporters inside, waiting to find out if he was going to take the throne, but he’d like to avoid as many as possible.  Plus, walking through that line of reporters would be far too much like the situation with Lydia, and he wasn’t looking forward to a repeat of  _ that _ .

He was hustled into the Consulate by a security team, Chris barking orders into his little earpiece.  It took him a few minutes to figure out that when they said “Little Red” they were talking about him.

“My codename is after Little Red Riding Hood?” he hissed, outraged.

“Codenames are meant to be secret, Your Highness.”

“Don’t give me that, you asshole, why am I Little Red?”

Chris looked pointedly at the red vest and bowtie he was sporting, but when Stiles narrowed his eyes distrustfully he added, “Also because of your friend’s wolf backpack.”

“This would be Cora’s fault,” Stiles grumbled.  He didn’t have long to mope though, because Grandpère appeared around a corner looking sharp and livid.

“Maczysz!” he snapped. “I told you to get here early so that we could do something about that eye!  It is rude to leave people waiting!”

“Yeah, Grandpère, I know,” Stiles assured him. “I was hoping to talk to you…”

“Whatever it is, it must wait,” Grandpère interrupted him, turning to address one of his little minions about getting someone in there to take care of his eye.

“It’s kind of important…”

“If it was that important, you would have been here on time,” Grandpère declared and then swept from the room.  God, what a dick.  For a moment, Stiles questioned his own sanity, and then steeled his nerves again.  Grandpère was a nightmare, yeah, but Stiles could out-asshole anyone if he put his mind to it.

He was hustled into a spare bedroom of the consulate and was almost immediately accosted by a woman with a stick of concealer and some foundation, as well as a man who grabbed his rumpled, undone bowtie from around his neck and tsked loudly before yelling for someone to bring him an iron. A woman with a clipboard was reading off an itinerary list to him while shoving some index cards into his hand.  He hardly looked them over before shoving them in his pocket, not caring about the disapproving look she was giving him because he was so overwhelmed.

“Done!” the woman with the makeup brush announced, and a moment later the guy returned with his bowtie, though Stiles suspected that he had forcibly stolen it from someone else, because he was pretty sure no one could iron that fast.  It was tied a bit too tightly around his throat with brutal efficiency, and he was a little afraid to try and loosen it, so he just swallowed and hoped he wouldn’t suffocate.

“Good, get him downstairs, quickly now!  We’re already half an hour behind schedule!” Clipboard Lady demanded shrilly, and suddenly he was being hustled out of the room, down the hall, and towards the ballroom.  The Consulate was packed with people, most likely Genovian aristocrats and locals of importance.  Stiles was pretty sure the smiling guy who appeared to be trying to speak to everyone in the room was the mayor of Sacramento.  Nothing like networking.

There was also, of course, a mass amount of reporters, who stood out because their clothes, while nice, were obviously not up to the same standard of quality as a most of the other people in the room.  Well, that and the digital recorders they brandished at anyone who was foolish enough to speak to them.

Grandpère was already standing at a podium with the Genovian crest embossed at the front, and as soon as he saw that Stiles was there, he began to speak.  A hush fell over the crowd as they listened to him speak.  It was mostly just a welcoming intro, but it was peppered with little jokes and friendly, familiar acknowledgements of people in the crowd.  Stiles had never seen him be so personable.

“Now,” said Grandpère after a few minutes. “I think we all know what the most pressing matter on our minds is tonight.  It is a question that will shape the very future of our country.  After the unfortunate and untimely demise of Prince Jean-Philippe and Crown Prince Fabian, may they rest in peace, we are left at a precipice.  Tonight, we shall lay rest to the uncertainties of our future leadership.  To that, I will hand over the podium to my grandson, Hereditary Prince Maczysz.”

Stiles froze for a second before someone behind him-probably Chris, that asshole-gave him a firm shove forward.  He very gracefully stumbled over his own feet but managed to recover without flailing too much.  Still, he could see, behind Grandpère’s showy smile, that he was dying inside.  He made it the rest of the way to the podium without any injury, so he counted that good.  Grandpère stepped back to let him take his place, which was super symbolic on his part.  Stiles had no doubt that it was a purposeful move.

“Heeeeeey,” he said awkwardly, his voice reverberating nicely around the mostly-silent ballroom.  That was not at all how he’d intended to start.  He’d wanted to start with a proper ‘hello’, but apparently a bit of dignity was too much to ask of himself.  He cleared his throat and tried again.

“I’m Stiles.  You...probably know that.  Listen, I’m not great at speeches,” he admitted. “I can talk like a champion, but staying on topic is not exactly my biggest strength.  Ask my dad, or literally anyone I’ve ever met, once I get going it’s really hard to get me to stop, like this one time…”

He finally spotted his Dad in the crowd, standing in a little bunch with Scott, Cora, and Melissa McCall.  He was face-palming while his friends grinned, and it took him a second to realize exactly why.

“...aaaaand that is exactly what I’m talking about,” he interrupted himself awkwardly, earning him a few smiles and titters of laughter from the crowd.  It was kind of encouraging, so he took a breath and continued.

“I grew up in California, in a little town called Beacon Hills not too far from here.  Most of you probably know that I never even knew my mother was a princess until a few months ago.  I knew she was from Genovia, but I’d always thought of myself as 100% American, with the democracy and the apple pie.  When my grandfather told me about all this, and what I was expected to do, I freaked out.”

There was another titter of laughter there, the awkward kind that people offer when they’re not really sure how to respond.  He could practically hear Grandpère’s brain whirring about all the speech-giving lessons that he’d apparently failed to soak in.

“The thing about getting huge, life-changing news like that is that it blows your whole mind,” Stiles said, focusing his eyes back on his friends for another boost of confidence. “Like, you really start questioning who you are and all the people around you.  I spent weeks utterly confused, feeling like the whole world was wrong.  I wasn’t sure how I fit into it anymore, and that’s a terrifying feeling.  There’s pretty much no way to get an even footing when one day your biggest concern is a World Civics test and the next you’ve got reporters camping out outside your house.”

There was a general disapproving hum and some of the media members shifted uncomfortably, while others seemed totally unconcerned.

“This whole time, I’ve been counting down the days to this ball.  Waiting for the moment where I could just give up my right to the throne and get back to my life and stop being afraid all the time. I talked about the issue extensively with my dad and my friends.  They all generally agreed that they thought I was capable of being a leader, but that it had to be my choice.  Some of them were more vocal about it than others,  _ Cora. _ ”

She whooped loudly, startling several of the people around her, and Stiles cracked a grin while she flashed him a devil horns sign and stuck her tongue out.  No doubt  _ that _ would be a picture in the papers tomorrow.  Grandpère was going to have a stroke.

“Despite all of their support and their reassuring words, I was still scared.  But today, my Dad gave me a letter that my mother left me, and she made me realize that there are more important things than fear.”

He paused to take a breath, his eyes trained on his dad’s face.  It was half-crumpled, like he was trying desperately to squash down his emotions, but too proud and sad to manage it.  Stiles spared him another smile before he continued.

“If I spend my whole life running away from things that I’m afraid of, then I might as well pack it in and live in my Dad’s attic forever.  But if I embrace the things that terrify me, I can have a real impact on the world.  My thoughts and ideas could really matter in the macro-sense, and that is an opportunity that I can’t turn my back on.”

His dad looked kind of pale then,surprised, like he knew exactly what Stiles was going to say, and maybe he did.  He had always seemed to be able to read his mind, after all.

“So, up until now, I’ve been Stiles Stilinski.” He paused for dramatic effect. “But now, I choose to be Maczysz Philippe Grimaldi Stilinski Renaldo, Prince of Genovia.”

Stiles heard Grandpère make a disbelieving choking noise behind him, and then a hand was clamping down on his shoulder as the ballroom burst into polite applause and the cameras started flashing doubletime.  Stiles turned to look at him, uncertain about how he felt about the matter.  His eyes were slightly teary, which was so horrifying it made Stiles’s eyes kind of teary.

Grandpère made a quick motion with his hand and a man hurried forward with a purple pillow, atop which sat a coronet.  It was made of silver, and every three inches along the diameter rose up to shape a fleur de lis.  Each fleur had a ruby set in the middle, and the round band was adorned with smaller sapphires every inch or so.  It was simple, considering it was probably worth more than Stiles’ Jeep.  He’d never gotten around to actually picking out a coronet, convinced that he would never need one, and he was glad that Grandpère had shown restraint and clearly picked one that he thought Stiles would like, as compared to one that was ostentatious.

He picked up the coronet and Stiles ducked his head obediently, surprised when it settled perfectly just above his brow.  He wondered if Grandpère had had his head measured in his sleep, or if it was just a really lucky guess.

“This was my first coronet,” Grandpère told him. “I suspected that it would suit you.  I hope you’ll be fond of it.”

“Thanks, Grandpère,” Stiles said, reaching up to touch it and stopping in his tracks when Grandpère scowled warningly at him. “How’d you know to have it ready?”

“I didn’t,” Grandpère admitted. “I only hoped.  A Prince is always prepared, Maczysz.”

Then, he turned to address the crowd, clasping his hands together in front of him.  He didn’t seem bothered at all by the multiple flashes going off in the faces, though Stiles was pretty sure that he was wincing and flinching like a doofus.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you,” he said, his voice carrying impressively even without a microphone, “His Royal Highness, Prince Maczysz!”

He turned and inclined his head in a short bow, and the rest of the Genovians in assembly followed suit with deeper bows and curtsies, which a few of the Americans tried to copy a bit awkwardly.  It was kind of overwhelming, and just as his breath started to get short, Grandpère clapped his hands and called out,

“Now, let the dancing begin!”

The dance floor cleared off quickly to make room, as Stiles was technically supposed to start the first dance.  He moved through the crush of spectators with a nervous smile, his heart pounding in his throat as he stood alone in the center of the empty dance floor.  He hadn’t considered finding someone to dance with, what with everything else that had happened, and now he was standing there alone looking like a gigantic freak.

He started desperately looking for Cora, knowing she would bail him out even if she would gripe and complain about it later, and that’s when he saw the crowd shifting as if someone was pushing their way through it.  And then he saw Derek, dressed in a nice suit that seemed just slightly too large, like he’d borrowed it from his dad.  Stiles couldn’t stop the huge grin that spread over his face.

Derek returned an equally wide grin, finally breaking free of the crowd and coming to stand in front of Stiles.  He executed a deep, polished bow that had none of the awkwardness of his very first attempt, and Stiles was so surprised he almost forgot to bow his head in acknowledgement.  He did so quickly, and then Derek offered his hand.  As they fell into the position Grandpère had spent hours wrestling them into, the music started and they moved smoothly into a dance.

“I’m so glad you came,” Stiles admitted, his voice pitched low. “I thought maybe you’d never talk to me again.”

“I don’t know how I was supposed to say no to a five-foot tall “I’m sorry” spelled out in boxes of Milk Duds,” Derek snorted, a tiny grin gracing his face.

“I was banking on that,” Stiles told him seriously. “I have it on good authority that you’re powerless against Milk Duds.”

Derek rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling, like absolutely nothing could get him down.

“How’d you get into my room without anyone seeing you anyway?”

“I didn’t,” Stiles snorted. “You forget, I have a mole on the inside.”

“Cora,” Derek said with realization.

“Cora,” Stiles agreed.

Other people had started to dance then as well, which made Stiles’ shoulders relax just a bit.  It was kind of harrowing to have a bunch of people watching his every move.  He saw Cora dancing, awkwardly, with his Dad, and Scott with his mother, though his attention seemed to be fixed on someone across the room.

“I’m not sure if I should be pissed that she went in my room or not.”

“Don’t be,” Stiles advised. “If she hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here right now.  And I’m really happy you’re here.”

“Me too,” Derek agreed, ducking his head to try to hide his fond smile.  A surprising amount of affection twisted in Stiles’ stomach, and he wondered why he’d never noticed it before his dad had pointed it out.  Maybe he’d just been ignoring it.

“Hey,” Stiles said suddenly, “Come on.”

Derek didn’t even question him, just let Stiles take his hands and pull him from the ballroom.  They didn’t go far, only out on to the back terrace that overlooked the gardens.  They were just as done up as the front had been, covered in twinkling fairy lights. Even the walking path was lined with lights, so that people could stroll through the garden if they so wished.  Stiles stopped at the balcony that overlooked a small lit fountain that had been brought in specifically for the ball.  Grandpère had been muttering about the Japanese Consulate under his breath all the while that he’d been harassing the moving guys about finding the absolute perfect placement.

“Why did you ask me to this ball?” Derek asked, looking suddenly thoughtful and quiet. “Out of everyone you could have asked, why me?”

Stiles didn’t even have to think before he answered.

“Because you saw something special in me before there was anything special to see.  And being around you kinda makes me feel like maybe there is something special after all.”

He wasn’t sure if what he was saying made any sense to anyone but him.  He didn’t really have any words to describe the tumultuous roiling in his stomach when he looked at Derek, or the way his blood seemed to sing at the sight of his smile.  Derek seemed to understand him, though, because he just leaned forward and kissed him softly on the mouth.  Even though Stiles thought it should have been like that perfect curtain-closing kiss, it was actually a little less than stellar, but that was mostly because he couldn’t stop smiling like a goon.

Derek’s lips were nice and soft, decidedly not sticky, and the way his hands came up to cradle Stiles’ face like he was the most precious thing in the whole world made him want to melt into a puddle of useless goo.  Except that then he’d have to stop kissing Derek, and that was absolutely not an option.  Derek didn’t seem to have gotten that memo, though, because a moment later he leaned away slowly and shook his head fondly as Stiles tried to follow him.

“Why’d you stop?” Stiles complained.

“I just wanted to look at you,” he said, which was cheesy and _ the most romantic thing Stiles had ever heard. _

“Enough looking,” Stiles declared, leaning back in for another kiss.  Derek laughed against his mouth but didn’t pull away.  Their second kiss was much better than the first, or at least Stiles thought so.  It wasn’t like he had a ton of previous experience to base it on.  But Derek was warm and he smelled nice, and Stiles was left wondering why he ever did anything  _ but _ kiss Derek Hale.

“We should go back in,” Derek said a few minutes later, pulling away only far enough to talk.

“We should not do that,” Stiles disagreed. “We should stay out here  _ forever _ .”

“They’re gonna miss you eventually,” Derek pointed out. “And I don’t know about you, but I don’t really want to share this moment with all the readers of  _ the Sacramento Bee _ .”

“Ugh,” Stiles groaned. “All right.  Let’s go back in, then.  Maybe I can use my fancy new headgear to get the band to play something a little more upbeat.”

“They’re a string orchestra,” Derek pointed out dryly.

“We’ll make it work,” Stiles assured him.

As it turned out, string orchestras could really rock the house when they were so inclined.

* * *

_ December 21, 2015, Royal Genovian Airlines, Somewhere Above the Atlantic Ocean _

_ I’ve decided to keep this diary to record the crazy-ass changes happening in my life, the same way my mother did.  I don’t know if I’ll keep up with it, but for now I figure it’s worth a try. _

_ As it turns out, Grandpère has decided that I should finish high school in Genovia.  I laughed out loud when I heard, but not nearly as loud as Dad did.  We’ve both put our feet firmly down on that account.  How am I supposed to move to Genovia when Derek is in California?  Besides, I’ve got college plans, and they are rooted firmly in either Berkeley or Palo Alto, so Grandpère is just going to have to suck it up.  My coronation might just have to wait until I finish college, but somehow I don’t think Grandpère will mind bossing everyone around for an extra four years.  We have agreed, for the time, on me spending summer vacations in Genovia. Grandpère has decided that it’s of the utmost importance that I go to Genovia and meet the people as soon as possible, so Dad and I are spending Christmas vacation in Lexington Palace (my palace, wtf)  in Pyrus.  Which is kind of insane, to be honest. _

_ I tried to convince Grandpère to let me bring Derek, Cora, and Scott to visit as well, but he was really pissy about it.  He’s mad that I’m dating Derek because he’s too “common”.  He’s taken to calling him “That Boy”, as if he’s a rapscallion in a street gang or something.  Anyway, Ms. McCall and Mrs. Hale both refused to let their kids miss Christmas with their families, so I guess it was moot point anyway.  Super unfair.  They have promised that they’ll let them come visit at some point over the summer, though, which will be great.   _

_ Scott’s mostly excited to see Allison again, that traitor.  He met her at the Genovian Independence Day Ball and has been drooling over her like a puppy with hearts in his eyes ever since.  He didn’t even seem all that terrified when he found out that Allison is Chris’ daughter, though I’m not sure if that’s love or a lack of survival instinct on Scott’s part. I don’t know what Cora’s looking forward to most, but it’ll probably have something to do with harassing Genovian aristocrats about their privilege or starting a rally in the streets of Pyrus for the Save the Sea Otter movement.  Derek, I hope, will just want to see me.  I know I’ll want to see him. _

_ We’re getting ready to land in Genovia now, and I’m starting to get nauseous with nerves.  I keep wondering what will happen if the people hate me, or if I fall flat on my face and fail an entire country.  I keep having to remind myself to throw myself into the unknown and embrace my fears. _

_ I hear that’s the best way to become the kind of man I want to be. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thanks for making it all the way to the end! I had a fun time writing it and I hoped you enjoyed reading it just as much. If you did, please drop me a comment. That would super cool of you.


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